


The Wandering Kind

by sweetestdrain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestdrain/pseuds/sweetestdrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester dies on a sunny day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tore Out the Leaves

PART ONE: _Tore Out the Leaves_

Dean woke. The alarm clock read 7:46 AM. Outside, the day had dawned bright and warm, the sky an endless sort of blue that Dean had only seen a handful of times. It was beautiful.

It was the third day of Dean being completely alone.

He got out of bed. He considered brushing his teeth. He thought about walking into the living room, but then he remembered what was in there. No. Dean settled for hiding in the kitchen and brewing a pot of strong, black coffee, just the way his dad liked it.

He took a couple of sips and poured the rest into the sink.

It wasn't long, maybe an hour, until a few other hunters showed up to help him carry his father's body from the cabin. The corpse was heavy and stiff, and it took a while to start burning, even with all the butane they'd poured over the pyre: the heavy, soiled sheets, the heaps of branches and twigs. Dean could smell charred wood and skin. His father's skin.

Dean turned from the pyre, walking on stiff, shaky legs, and made it to the edge of the clearing before he threw up in the bushes.

 

*

 

After the fire burned down, Bobby asked, "Do you know what you're doing now, boy?" His baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes, and he regarded Dean with a steady gaze, no mention of the tears that were still running down Dean's face.

Dean had met him a few times before, but Bobby and his dad had never gotten along. Still, for just a moment, there was something about the man that made Dean want to follow him home like a lost puppy.

"You shouldn't be by yourself," said Bobby. His eyes were sympathetic. "I have a few odd jobs that need doing around my place - you'd be doing me a favor."

"I don't do favors," Dean told him.

Bobby's mouth turned down at the corners. "Your dad did. In fact, I owed him a big one. The way I see it, this is how I pay it back." His voice dropped low, as if he thought the other hunters would overhear: "He'd have wanted me to make sure you were okay, before I let you take your fool self and go trotting off to do hell knows what."

"You don't know anything about me," said Dean. Fuck. He couldn't do this. Bobby's good intentions and earnest expression made Dean want to shoot something. His words came out ragged and sharp, like a dog bite. "And you don't know anything about my dad. That favor was between you and him. Don't drag me into it just because you've lost your chance to pay up."

Bobby sighed. "Just don't get yourself killed, kid."

Dean said nothing. He squeezed the car keys in his hand until they bit into his palm, then he made himself turn and walk away from Bobby and the other hunters. Away from the stinking embers of what was left of his father.

The Impala sat at the edge of the woods, its chassis gleaming black and vengeful. Like Dean.

"Hey, girl," Dean said roughly. "I guess this means you're mine, now, huh?"

 

*

 

He tore through the Midwest, tires squealing loops of burnt rubber on long lines of backcountry roads. Dean's boot was planted firmly on the accelerator and the Impala shuddered under his feet , like she was a living thing hurting under his heel. Hell, Dean _wanted_ her to hurt. He'd loved the car all his life, always begged his dad to let him drive her, but now she was nothing. She smelled like sweat, car exhaust, and old blood.

Dean wanted to kill something. Wanted to make the world pay. But there was nothing to hunt. Nothing to fight. Nothing to blame for what had happened to his father.

After everything, Dean thought bitterly, after almost twenty years of fighting the meanest and toughest sons of bitches that Hell had to offer, the thing to finally get the better of John Winchester was a _heart attack_.

Dean had never been completely alone before. Even the time he ran away at sixteen, Dean had never been alone; he'd known that every second he spent hitching rides was another second closer to when his dad would finally catch up to him. And John had. He'd found Dean in western Pennsylvania, hungry and lonely, ready to come home. Hugged Dean until Dean was about to cry - home, _home_ \-- then he drew back and punched Dean square in the face. The only time his dad ever hit him. Dean had the black eye for weeks, but knew he deserved it.

His dad wasn't going to find him this time.

When he stopped to think about it, Dean figured he was probably going crazy. He didn't really talk to anyone. Waitresses at diners seemed a little less flirty and a little more business, and Dean guessed he was probably giving off all kinds of messy, fucked-up vibes. Hell, Dean would stay away from himself, too.

But other stuff was happening, too, and it wasn't anything that could be explained away by Dean's grief; the longer Dean traveled by himself, the stranger the world became.

One night, he was driving back through the outskirts of Columbus after wiping out a nest of pixies, and the sky turned violet. Flower petals rained down on his car from nowhere, tiny white blossoms getting caught underneath the windshield wipers.

In Oklahoma, a month later, a tornado ripped right in front of the Impala, swirling up a huge train rattle of dirt and tree branches, and then disappeared.

Dean didn't do anything, either time; he just rubbed his eyes, gunned the engine, and kept going.

 

*

 

Twenty miles from Ohio, Dean's shitty driving finally caught up with him: the Impala blew out a tire and nearly skidded into a ditch. Dean slammed on the brakes and then just sat there for a long moment, heart thudding dully in his chest.

After a few minutes had passed, Dean got out of the car, surveyed the damage-and the blank space in the trunk where the spare used to be-and walked the long three miles to the nearest gas station with the sad mess of rubber. By the time he'd returned to the Impala and installed the repaired tire, Dean wondered if he was having a heart attack, too; he felt empty, like his chest had been hollowed out, and he couldn't breathe.

Dean sat down on the ground, hard. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't deal.

He was ready to stop.

He was still sitting next to the Impala, gasping for air, wondering if he wanted to bother even trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest, when a man walked up to him.

"You okay?" asked the man. He was a young guy, tall, with brown hair and a dirty face. He had a backpack that was the same shade of dull, faded brown as the rest of his clothes. He was obviously a hitchhiker, possibly an axe murderer, too. Dean couldn't bring himself to care, not when he was busy dying already.

But with the interruption, Dean was already starting to breathe a little easier. His next breath caught on something deep in the back of his throat, like a clogged drain. Tears. Dean inhaled shakily, covered his face with his hands.

The guy sighed and squatted down on the ground beside Dean, lowering his backpack to the ground. He didn't say anything, just looked intently at the gravel by Dean's feet like he was waiting for Dean to finish.

Dean took some deep breaths, forced the tears back down. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "What do you want?" he asked.

"You need some help changing that tire?" The guy's voice was casual and his expression was easy and kind. Big earnest eyes, a sharp, up-turned nose, wide mouth. His hair was all in his face.

Dean blinked. "Nah, I'm done. It's done."

"Okay," said the guy. "Need to talk? I'm a good listener."

"What? _No,_" said Dean.

The guy just nodded and looked up at the Impala. "Nice car. I mean, if you like that kind of thing."

"What are you talking about, she's gorgeous," said Dean. He pressed a hand against the Impala's side, closing his eyes for a second. So many of Dean's memories were tied up in this big mass of metal, and with a sick jolt, he realized he didn't want to let go of any of them. "Best fucking car in the world."

"She's a gas-guzzler," said the guy. "An antique. Plus, you're obviously over-compensating for something. But, hey."

"Was there a point to this?" Dean asked.

The guy shrugged and stood, hoisting his pack back onto his shoulders. "I was going to ask you for a ride, but you're going the wrong way. So... I guess I'm gonna keep walking." He took a few steps, turned back and gave Dean a small smile. "Nice to meet you."

It was the smile that did it, Dean thought later. There was something familiar about it. Or maybe Dean just wanted it to be familiar: that tiny quirk of lips, the knowing eyes.

"Where you headed?" Dean asked.

The guy paused and shifted his weight, gravel crunching beneath his heels. "California."

"California," Dean said to himself, then nodded slowly. He got to his feet. "Yeah, all right. I can give you a ride."

"Seriously?" The guy stared at him. "You sure? Your car's pointed east."

"Huh, see, that's funny," said Dean. "These days, they make these things called steering wheels. You can turn them, and the car moves in a different direction." Dean's throat hurt; he realized, suddenly, that he'd just said more words in the past five minutes than he had in the past five months.

He held out his hand. "I'm Dean."

The guy just raised an eyebrow at him, ignoring Dean's offer of a handshake. "Sam," he said. "I'm Sam."

Dean let his hand drop. "Well, Sam. Nice to meet you. Hop on in."

 

*

 

Sam was a good traveling companion. He shut up for the most part, didn't try to make Dean talk more than he wanted to. They made good time for a couple hundred miles, and Dean didn't have to think about anything at all. He just had to keep driving towards the sun, its bright orange glow beginning to set behind the rise of the road.

The only time things got hairy was when Sam started rifling through the cassette tapes under the seat.

"It's like the greatest hits of redneck country," Sam muttered.

Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel, rage suddenly firing through every pore. "Shut up."

Sam cast him a startled glance. "Hey, I was kidding. You want me to put something on?"

The feeling of rage passed, replaced by a near-crippling sadness. _No_, thought Dean. He hadn't listened to any of his dad's tapes since he'd died. But something made him nod. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Sam bent over the little cardboard box again, making a humming sound in the back of his throat. When he finally made a selection and popped it in the tape deck, Dean let out a breath.

_I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. I keep my eyes wide open all the time._

"So, where are you going?" asked Sam. "After California, I mean."

"Wherever, dude," said Dean. "Anywhere." _Because you're mine._ "The whole world, maybe." _I walk the line_.

Sam looked at him from under messy bangs. "Sounds nice."

Dean didn't respond. Johnny Cash started singing _I don't know where I'm bound,_ and his hands tightened on the wheel.

"You want to stop for the night soon?" Sam asked. "I'd offer to drive, but I figure -"

"No way are you driving my baby," Dean finished. He'd actually considered it for a split second, though, which was - weird. He'd only just met this guy. "Yeah, okay. Next motel we see?"

"Works for me," said Sam. He gave Dean a critical look, taking in Dean's fierce grip on the steering wheel, and hit eject on the tape deck. Cash's _throw my ashes to the wind_ cut off with a click, and Dean felt the tension in his shoulders ease like a discarded rubber band.

 

*

 

Sam didn't have much money, so Dean broke about five of his own unspoken rules and told him they should share the motel room. They got a double.

Dean settled in on the bed closest to the door, and Sam jerked his head at the bathroom. "Do you mind?"

Dean shook his head.

Turned out that Sam, freshly showered and without the dirt and grime, looked a lot younger than Dean had originally estimated. Dean muted the TV and stared.

"Jesus, how old are you?" asked Dean. "Sixteen?"

"No, jackass. Nineteen," said Sam. "And I suppose you're what, forty?"

"I'm twenty-three, _kid_," said Dean. "Nineteen? Jesus. What the hell are you doing out on the road, shouldn't you be in college or something?"

Dean didn't know why he assumed that Sam was the college type; there was just something about him. The kid was genuinely smart, kind of quiet, but really fucking sharp. And he wasn't afraid of Dean. Actually, Dean wasn't sure if that was a smart thing or not; there weren't many people that could say that, these days.

"College... well. That's what's in California." Sam shrugged. "I'm starting classes in August. Or at least, I was. It's kind of complicated"

As Sam spoke, he pulled a clean T-shirt over his head. His hair was still dripping wet from the shower and the damp white fabric stuck to his skin, clinging to the outline of his shoulders.

_Complicated._ Dean wanted to ask, but he didn't even know why he gave a damn. He looked away from Sam's back, muscles shifting beneath cotton, and flipped to another channel.

 

*

The next day was spent on the road. Sam didn't talk much, but when he did, he was hilarious. The first time Dean had laughed at something Sam said, Sam looked startled, wide hazel eyes trained on Dean's mouth like he'd just started speaking in a foreign tongue. What, did he not think Dean had a sense of humor? After a second, Sam relaxed and sent Dean a blazing smile.

"You got any brothers or sisters?" Dean asked Sam, because let it never be said that he wasn't a masochist. "Folks still around?"

"A sister," said Sam. "And my mom. Haven't seen them in a while, though."

Dean felt his mouth twisting. He hated himself for the brief flash of jealousy.

"What about you?" Sam asked.

"Only child. My dad died a few months ago," said Dean. It was the first time he'd said the words. "My mom died when I was a kid."

"Sorry," said Sam. He sounded like he meant it. "That must be rough. My dad's dead, too; I didn't know him very well, though. We weren't close."

Dean wondered if he had been close with his dad, or if it was even possible to be _close_ to John Winchester. There hadn't been a day that he and Dean hadn't woken up next to each other, then gone out and slaughtered monsters and ghosts side-by-side, but close? Dean wasn't sure what "close" even meant.

Sam shifted in his seat, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Dean didn't know what he could say to put Sam at ease again. He was getting so bad at this; he couldn't even make new friends anymore. Put Dean in kindergarten and he'd flunk out.

"Hey. Hey, pull over," Sam said suddenly.

"What, what is it?"

"There's a car over there." Sam pointed. Dean followed his gaze and saw a light blue Volvo perched daintily in the drainage ditch. The car seemed unharmed, but the driver, an older woman with carrot-red hair, was leaning against the side of it and clutching her wrist.

Dean pulled over as Sam rolled down his window. He leaned across Sam's lap and called out, "Hey, ma'am, you okay? You need me to call any help?" Sam was trying to lean back in his seat to give Dean more access to the window, but his breath was still hot in Dean's ear.

The woman looked up quickly, shook her head. "Fine," she said. "I'm fine."

"Huh," Dean said under his breath, and Sam nodded.

"Something's fishy. Hey, you wait here and call an ambulance or a tow truck or something," Sam said, rolling the window back up. "I'm going to go make sure she really is okay."

"Whoa, wait up there," Dean started to say, but Sam was already out of the car and heading over to the woman. Great. Dean watched them through the glass and rooted around in his pocket for his cell phone. As he watched, Sam started talking to the woman. She kept shaking her head.

"Hey," Dean said to the operator, "Can I get the number for a tow company right outside of Evansville?" They put him on hold.

The woman was starting to look pissed off. Something wasn't right here: Sam's shoulders had gone tight like an angry cat and the woman's grimace was beginning to show teeth. Dean grabbed his gun from under the seat and started to get out of the car.

Before Dean could even get the door open, the woman practically _growled_ at Sam, then reached into her car and took out a big heavy length of metal pipe, hefting it like she meant to use it. Dean scrambled from the Impala -- _shit_, the bitch was crazy and Dean was so stupid he was going soft and if Sam got _hurt_ -

But Sam was faster. He wrenched the pipe from her hands and tossed it aside, then reached out for her wrist.

He touched her, and the woman disappeared.

Fucking _disappeared_.

Dean stood there a moment, didn't move or say anything, not until Sam picked up the pipe and turned towards him. Then Dean raised his gun and aimed it right between Sam's lying eyes.

"What the _fuck_ are you?" Dean snarled.

 

  
(illustration by [](http://guard-the-cards.livejournal.com/profile)[**guard_the_cards**](http://guard-the-cards.livejournal.com/))


	2. Held a Stone Above My Bones

PART TWO: _Held a Stone Above My Bones_

Dean lost some time.

Next thing Dean knew, Sam was on his knees in front of the Impala, his hands held out empty, his face pale. "I know it sounds crazy," Sam was saying. He was trying to sound calm and reasonable, Dean could tell, but his words kept tripping over top of each other. The gun that Dean was pressing against his forehead probably didn't help.

"Wait," Dean said. "Wait a goddamn minute. Tell me again."

"Demons - evil things are real," Sam said quickly. "And there are some things that, that are supposed to just be stories, but they're _not_ \--"

"What?" Dean interrupted. His grip tightened, the barrel of his gun jabbing the thin skin at Sam's temple. Some part of Dean's brain noted that Sam flinched.

"I'm telling the truth," Sam said desperately. "God - Dean, _please_, give me a chance to explain -"

"_Christo_."

Nothing happened. Sam's eyes blinked up at him, watery and clear.

Air made its way back into Dean's lungs. He lowered his gun, but just a fraction, starting to realize just how close he'd come to killing Sam. Sam's face had gone tight and he was shaking, but his eyes were still imploring and earnest. Dean swallowed, said, "Are you telling me that the woman by the car was a demon?"

"You know about demons? You, you're a hunter?"

"-_What?_" Dean wondered if it would be better to just pull the trigger.

"You never let me look in the trunk," Sam said. "I should have realized. Dean - I'm a hunter, too. I wasn't going to get you involved - I didn't know -"

"She _disappeared_," Dean interrupted. "When you touched her. No host, no body left behind, no cloud of smoke, just_poof_. That's not what demons do. Explain that to me."

"I can't," said Sam. "It's something new."

"That sounds like so much bullshit, you have no idea." Dean raised his gun again, but Sam didn't back down.

"I'm telling the truth. You know I am. You've probably noticed a lot of weird stuff going on lately, too."

"What kind of weird," Dean asked flatly.

"Odd weather patterns," Sam said. "Cattle unrest, unexplained hauntings, people rising from the dead. Not your garden-variety supernatural occurrences. More like signs and portents."

"Maybe," Dean allowed, remembering Oklahoma.

"If you're a hunter - you know Ellen? Ellen Harvelle? The Roadhouse? She's my mom, she can vouch for me, and you already know I'm not possessed. Dean, why would I lie to you?"

Dean didn't recognize the name Ellen, but he could look her up easy enough. Still - "You expect me to believe that it's just coincidence?" Dean swallowed. "You, a hunter, just happen to hitch a ride with a hunter, and we just happen to meet a demon on the side of the road?"

"Yes," Sam said. "That's what happened."

Dean wanted to believe him. He really wanted to believe him.

Dean bowed his head and let his gun drop to his side, clicked the safety back on. He tried to ignore the little noise of relief that Sam made. He wouldn't have actually _killed_ the kid, Dean told himself. Maybe just winged him a little.

"Okay," Dean said. He tried to look Sam in the face, couldn't quite do it. "Okay."

"All right," said Sam. He clambered to his feet and didn't bother to brush the gravel from his knees, just hovered there, right out of reach. "Thanks, man."

Dean snorted. "For what?"

Sam's mouth twitched. "For believing me? For not blowing my brains out just now?"

"Anytime," said Dean.

 

*

 

They drove on. Dean expected Sam to take off the first chance he got; it couldn't be fun to have some psychotic hunter stick his gun in your face. Sam seemed okay, though, if a little quiet. Then again, if Sam was a hunter, too, like he claimed, he probably had some experience with paranoid sons of bitches.

Dean still didn't know why he believed Sam, but he did. He made a half-hearted effort to be suspicious, watched Sam closely for the rest of the day, but when they stopped at another motel for the night, he asked for a room with two queens without even thinking about it.

The girl behind the counter handed them a couple of room keys - the real kind, not the little pieces of plastic. She was hot, with a great rack and legs up to there. Dean thought about trying to smile at her, but he was pretty sure that part of him was broken and shot to hell. He settled for a nod, and slid the other key across to Sam.

"Thanks," Sam said quietly. He raised his eyebrows in Dean's direction, but Dean couldn't interpret his expression.

"Hey, one of our regulars is putting on a puppet show tonight, out by the pool," the girl said to Sam, ignoring Dean completely. "You guys should check it out. It's seriously amazing, I don't know how he does it."

"Sure thing," said Sam. He cocked his head in Dean's direction. "We like puppets."

"'We like puppets'?" Dean repeated a few minutes later. "What the fuck, dude?"

"Hey, man, she was totally into you," Sam said. "I was just trying to help you out."

"Okay, first lesson: just because I show some appreciation for _Master of Puppets_ does not mean I want to see a _puppet show_," said Dean. "And she was not into me. It may be hard to believe, but I have been around the block a time or twenty, my friend. I know when a girl is into me and when she's about to run screaming. She was mentally lacing up her sneakers."

"I just thought maybe you could use the distraction." Sam shrugged. "You know? It seems like you don't let off steam very much."

Dean wondered if that was supposed to be a dig about him being trigger-happy. He shoved the key in the lock a little too forcefully. "We've known each other for three days. Why is my life any of your business?"

"I don't know," said Sam. "It's not. But - I'm here. If you want to talk about it. I mean, we're kind of friends now, right?"

Dean shook his head and opened the motel room door.

"...Right," said Sam, and he stepped carefully around Dean and went inside.

 

*

 

Somehow, they ended up at the puppet show anyway, along with a church group and a couple of families that were staying at the motel. The counter-girl came up and started flirting with Sam, and Dean took the opportunity to make his escape. He leaned against the fence on the opposite side of the pool, amusing himself by watching Sam's desperate attempts to dissuade the girl of her interest. Apparently, judging by Sam's pinched expression, talking to a pretty girl was equivalent to having a foot stuck in a bear trap.

Eventually, Dean got tired of watching Sam's awkward smiles and turned his attention to the puppet show. It wasn't too bad, actually; it was one of those old-style Punch and Judy sets with the elaborate marionettes, and the puppeteer was a friendly, overweight guy with a thick beard, wearing a Jerry Garcia T-shirt. Dean stared at the puppets - they were bigger than he'd expected, and more realistic - until he saw Sam approach out of the corner of his eye.

"Thanks for abandoning me, dude," Sam said. He sounded more amused than annoyed.

Dean grunted, and Sam leaned against the fence next to him, not touching, but so close that Dean could feel the warmth of his arm through the flannel.

"Just trying to help you out," Dean parroted back. Sam laughed under his breath.

They stood there for a long time, just soaking in the night, the stars slowly phasing in beyond the reach of the pool lights. It was the kind of night that made the weight ease, sent cool air breezing into your bones. Dean took a deep breath, his first in days, and tilted his head back to look at the sky. After a moment, he could feel Sam's eyes on him.

"What," said Dean.

Sam flinched a little and looked away. "Nothing," he said.

Dean didn't really believe that, but he let it drop. Maybe he didn't really want to know.

A kid gave a shriek as her brother pushed her in the pool, and Dean watched the laughing, spluttering girl as she clung to the concrete side and pulled her brother right in after her. The splashing distracted some of the onlookers from the puppets, but just for a minute, and then they turned back to the show. But Dean kept watching the kids, remembering when he'd been that age. Just him and his dad, but they'd made do. Dean had learned how to handle all the guns by the time he was twelve. He closed his eyes against the memory of his dad's voice.

"Hey," said Sam, startling Dean from his thoughts. "Look at those puppets. There's something…"

"Yeah?"

"Look at them - shit, Dean, they're moving on their own!"

Dean snapped to attention, craning his neck to stare at the puppet show. Sam was right - it was hard to tell from a distance, but there was too much give in the marionette strings, the tiny cords hanging loose while tiny puppet hands and feet still moved.

"What the _fuck,_" Dean muttered

"You think it's haunted?"

"Maybe. But wouldn't the puppeteer guy have noticed?" Dean squinted for another minute, then turned back to Sam. "We'll go check it out after he's done. Ask a few questions, check for EMF."

"Okay," said Sam.

It took Dean a few minutes to realize how easily he'd said "we."

 

*

 

The puppeteer's name was Gabe, and he didn't have any answers for them - just an earnest expression and a couple of facial tics.

"It just happened one day," Gabe said. "They started moving on their own. But it's nothing bad, is it? I mean, they seem happy."

Sam coughed, and Dean elbowed him in the side. "They sure do," Dean said. "Mind if we take a look?"

Gabe showed them the trunk where he stored the puppets. Dean's EMF detector wasn't working - he'd probably forgotten to change the batteries or something, and in a fun stroke of luck he didn't have any spares - so he and Sam just had to crouch down and inspect the puppets by eye. They looked absolutely normal, except for the fact that they were alive.

A couple of puppets blinked up at Dean with tiny wooden eyelids, and he shuddered. "Jesus. That's not right."

"At least they can't talk," said Sam.

"But they _can_ murder me in my sleep," said Dean. "Are we sure they're not possessed?"

"No reaction to holy water, and they didn't even flinch when we tried the exorcism. Gabe made them himself, which means it's unlikely they're haunted. They're just puppets. Well. Animate puppets."

Dean huffed a laugh. "What were you saying about the world getting weirder? Now we've got some run-of-the-mill _living dolls_."

"I guess we should burn them," Sam said slowly. "To be on the safe side."

"Yeah," said Dean.

They both stared at the puppets. The puppets stared back with nervous faces, and Dean could hear bits of wood clattering together softly, the sound of tangling strings.

"Although, I'm thinking that would break Gabe's heart," added Sam.

"They've been like this for months," said Dean. "No mysterious deaths, no unexplained occurrences? Aside from however they got like this to begin with?"

"None," said Sam. He was giving Dean a face that looked suspiciously like puppy-dog eyes.

Dean sighed. "Fine. Just don't blame me if they go all _Bride of Chucky_."

 

*

 

In thanks for not burning his dolls, Gabe gave Sam a fancy silver letter opener and his business card. Dean wondered if he should take offense - after all, it was _him_ that decided not to burn the little fuckers, not Sam. But Sam hocked the letter opener at a 24-hour pawn shop and used the cash to buy cigarettes and beer, so Dean decided that everything turned out for the best in the end.

"You could always have killed a werewolf with it," Dean pointed out anyway. "Melted it down for bullets."

Sam's face twisted, like he had a bad taste in his mouth. "Yeah, guess so."

It was late, but neither of them seemed to have any inclination to go to sleep. They were staying in a non-smoking room at the motel, so Dean cracked the door open a smidge and Sam unwrapped one of the cheap plastic drinking cups to use as an ashtray. The beer bottles wound up in the bathroom sink, buried in melting ice from the ice machine to keep them cool.

  
  
(illustration by [](http://guard-the-cards.livejournal.com/profile)[**guard_the_cards**](http://guard-the-cards.livejournal.com/))

 

"Shit, it's been a while," Dean murmured after the first drag of smoke. It made him want to cough at first, but he took another puff and the urge passed. "You know, I haven't smoked since I was nineteen. My dad found out and he woulda killed me if I hadn't quit."

"What, really?" asked Sam, already on his second cigarette. He grinned at Dean through a haze of smoke, kicked back in his chair and rested his feet on the bed next to Dean. "He was a hunter, too, right? I wouldn't have thought that worrying about cancer was his style."

Dean shrugged, knocked a little more ash into the plastic cup. "I dunno. He didn't like the smell or something. And he didn't want me 'knocking holes in my lungs' when I might have to run for my life at any moment. So he said."

"Probably smart," said Sam. He used the end of his cigarette to light a third one and then stubbed it out on the cover of the motel's out-of-date telephone book. "For me, well, try growing up in a bar full of guys who don't care about anything except alcohol, nicotine, and killing monsters. It's kind of hard not to pick up some habits."

"The killing monsters, you picked that up as a habit, too?" Dean took a swig of beer and let out a loud belch.

"Eww. Gross, man," Sam laughed. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess I did."

"You should laugh more," Dean said, not thinking until the words were already out. Sam gave him a weird look, but Dean pressed on. "I mean. It's not good for you to be a big old sourpuss all the time. You'll give yourself an ulcer."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Look who's talking." He stood up from his chair and stretched, then threw himself on the bed next to Dean. "Which reminds me, you always been like this? Or is the whole 'dark avenger' shtick a new development?"

Dean could actually feel his teeth starting to grind. "None of your goddamn beeswax."

"Says the guy that almost _shot_ me today."

Dean glanced at the clock. More like yesterday now, but yeah. He cast a look over at Sam. Sam's mouth was turned down at the corners, pissed off. Apparently he hadn't been as okay with Dean's actions as he'd seemed. Dean couldn't really blame him.

"Listen," said Dean. He didn't know if he was going to try to apologize or what, but then Sam shook his head.

"Never mind," said Sam. "That's not fair of me. I know that there's nasty shit out there. I just - Jesus, Dean." He sighed and seemed to sink a little more into the comforter.

Dean took a drag off his cigarette. It was almost down to the filter, and he reached over Sam and squished the butt flat on the telephone book before speaking. "You keep asking me about all this shit, about my life. Why the hell do you care, anyway?"

"Could ask you the same," Sam murmured. He rolled over to face Dean, his nose about three inches from Dean's cheek. "But you do, don't you. You try to act like you don't, but you care."

Dean swallowed, wondering how the conversation was suddenly taking a turn for the _oh hell no_. "Seriously, man, shut up."

Sam shook his head vigorously, and Dean was reminded that Sam was well on his way to drunk. He cast an eye over at the table, where empty beer bottles littered the surface like so many valiant soldiers. Huh. That explained Sam being so pushy. It also explained why Dean was pretty okay with Sam breathing on his neck.

"Aside from the nearly killing me thing... I bought you beer, dude," Sam said, like he was reading Dean's mind. "That means you tell me stuff. It's like payback, you owe me."

"Yeah? I've never heard of that rule."

Sam blinked at him, his eyes so earnest that it made Dean want to hurl. "When did your dad die?"

"April," said Dean. "Maybe it was March. I. I don't know."

"And your mom, you said she died when you were little."

"Yeah." Dean's mouth was dry. "Just me by my lonesome, now." He forced a chuckle.

Sam's jaw went tight, and he looked at Dean until Dean wanted to hide under something, just lock himself in the bathroom until it stopped. The look wasn't quite pity - it was something a lot harder for Dean to take. It was kind of like compassion. Like mercy.

"Well, you don't have to be," Sam said.

 

*

 

The next day was painfully awkward. Dean had a pounding headache and Sam wouldn't look him in the eye. They hadn't even said anything the previous night that the other didn't already know, but Dean felt scrubbed raw; every little word or thought hurt like it was hitting bare nerves. He didn't know how Sam could make him come so unglued, just with a few little meaningless words.

_You don't have to be._ Dean didn't even know what the fuck that was supposed to mean.

"You wanna listen to something?" Dean asked. He didn't really want to hear any of his dad's music, but it was something to say, and another hour of silence in the car was going to make Dean go batty. He'd already had months of silence - he wasn't going to put up with it when there was actually someone living and breathing in the passenger seat.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, that's fine." He didn't make a move to pull the box of tapes from under the seat, though, and Dean didn't feel like pressing it, suddenly overwhelmed by the memory of his father flipping through the tapes. He remembered his dad's hands, grimy from gun oil, the way he'd rest them solidly on the steering wheel or Dean's shoulder.

Dean swallowed and ignored Sam's sidelong gaze.

But then, like an act of God: as they were passing through yet another little town, Dean spotted a record store. The sign out front read _Swann's Records and CD's_, and under that, _Cassette tapes 5 for $1_.

"Holy shit!" Dean yelped. Sam gave a start and looked at Dean like he was crazy, but Dean just pulled into the first parking spot he could find, and jumped out of the car. "Hell yes, Sammyboy. We are getting us some _good_ music. You with me?"

Sam still looked startled, but at Dean's words, he started to grin. "I'm with you," he said.

They entered the store and Dean made a beeline right for the big crates of cassette tapes. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, but Dean didn't care - he saw _Back in Black_ on the very top of the stack, and underneath that was _Highway to Hell_, _Physical Graffiti_, and fucking _Zeppelin II_.

Sam came over after a minute, eying Dean's armful of tapes like they might jump out and bite him. "Maybe you should keep it down," he said. "You're making the owner nervous."

Dean flashed the owner a smile, then went back to cooing over his finds. Sam plucked a tape from his grasp.

"The Greatest Hits of _Journey_?" Sam choked.

"Shut up," Dean scowled. "It costs less than a quarter, man."

Sam wrinkled his nose and looked in the crates. It took less than a second for him to yelp, "No way!" and carefully extract a tape from the piles. Dean cast an appraising eye: Nirvana's _Nevermind_. Could be worse.

"Okay," said Sam, full-on grinning. "You've got me. This was an awesome idea."

"I do have them from time to time." Dean grabbed the tape from Sam and added it to his pile. "It's on me."

"Thanks," said Sam. "So we know there'll be at least one decent thing to listen to in the car."

Dean snorted. "We'll see about that, bitch."

Sam burst out laughing. "_Jerk_. God, you - you remind me so much of Jo, right now."

"Who's Joe?"

"My little sister," said Sam.

Something about Sam's tone seemed off. "I guess you haven't seen her lately, huh," said Dean. "What's she like?"

"A total pain in the butt," Sam said. "She likes to be annoying and make my life hell. And she loves REO Speedwagon. Come to think of it, you two would probably get along really well."

"Fuck you, man. I'm still trying to deal with the fact that I remind you of a _girl_." Dean dumped his purchases on the counter, and the owner sighed heavily and started writing out a receipt. "Cause last time I checked, I really, really _wasn't_."

"Not like I'd know." Sam raised his eyebrows. "I mean, your eyelashes are kind of girly."

Dean felt something coil in his gut. "You been noticing my eyelashes?"

"Kind of hard not to," said Sam. And as Dean watched, he started to flush a slow, deep red.

Before Dean could figure out a reply, the store owner shoved the bag full of cassettes at Dean's chest. "That'll be three dollars and eighteen cents," he said.

"I love her to death, though," Sam blurted, startling Dean while he was counting out his pennies. "Jo, I mean. She drives me crazy, but - she's kind of awesome, too. You know?"

"Yeah," said Dean. "I get that."

  
  
(illustration by [](http://guard-the-cards.livejournal.com/profile)[**guard_the_cards**](http://guard-the-cards.livejournal.com/))

 

*

 

They finally reached California in the dead of night, which was kind of anticlimactic. Dean could barely keep his eyes open, and he knew it'd be either dumb or suicide to keep driving. He turned down the volume on the tape deck -- _and if I say to you tomorrow, take my hand, child, come with me --_ and said, "Hey. Hey, Sammy."

Sam grunted at him. "Don't call me Sammy."

"Whatever," said Dean. "_Samantha. _ Keep an eye out for any motel signs." Sam gave a snort, but nodded.

The first motel they found was a run-down little place called Paradise Rooms and Suites, complete with lime green walls, pineapple-shaped soap, and free HBO. Dean settled in with the remote, and Sam stretched his freakishly tall self across the other bed.

It was weird how comfortable Dean felt with Sam there, like Sam was filling some sort of gap that his dad left. Sure, Sam was another warm body in the car, someone to share the motel bathroom. But Sam wasn't just some hitchhiker - he laughed at Dean's jokes, or at least groaned in the right places; he was witty, crazy-smart, and knew his way around a shotgun; and he even seemed to give a shit about what happened to the world, when Dean had spent months trying not to care.

It didn't matter, though, because Dean shouldn't be getting used to this; they had reached California, and it was probably going to be the last night Dean spent with Sam. Tomorrow they'd be rolling into Palo Alto, and Sam would stride off into the sunset, leaving Dean exactly where he'd been before.

Sam felt Dean looking, and glanced up at him. "What?"

"Nothing," said Dean. He started flipping channels. "Fuckers, can you believe it? Free HBO, and there's still not anything good on."

"Hold on a second, go back." Sam squinted at the TV screen as Dean hit a button on the remote. "What's that?"

"_Another brave suitor has met his fate tonight,_" read a local news anchor. The woman looked uncomfortable underneath her heavy make-up. "_Joseph Bellick was the seventh young man to propose to Mayor Keller's daughter Louise - and he was the seventh to fail the trials she lay out for him. A community mourns. Details after the weather. _"

"Wait," said Dean. "_What?_"

They watched the details after the weather, but there wasn't much detail to be had. Dean cursed at the TV when they started discussing high school basketball scores.

Sam's mouth twitched. "I take it we'll be staying here longer than we planned?"

Dean already had his boots back on. They probably had some local newspapers in the motel office, or _something_ with more information. He paused and looked at Sam, but Sam didn't look too torn up about the prospect of staying to check this out.

"Yeah, looks like," Dean said.

"Cool," said Sam.

 

*

 

That night, despite being bone-tired, Dean popped wood for the first time in months. He stood in the shower for at least five minutes, staring down at his inexplicable erection, before he finally wrapped his hand around his dick and started to stroke. He rubbed at his nipples with his other hand, imagining a gentle mouth there, and bit his lip at the feeling of pleasure that washed over him. It had been a long time.

It was only a minute or two before Dean was shooting off, and if he was thinking of Sam while he did it, well, nobody could ever blame a man for the shit that pops into his head while he's choking the chicken.

Except, of course, that Dean knew it was more than that. And, maybe... Maybe Sam was more than that. Dean closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the shower wall until the water ran cold.


	3. Ran Into the Summer Yard

PART THREE: _Ran Into the Summer Yard_

Another gap that Sam filled: _partner_. It was all too easy for them to get into character, pick up some cheap rental suits from a strip mall, and start asking questions around town.

Dean quickly saw that Sam hadn't been lying when he'd said he'd done this kind of thing before. He was pretty good at getting people to open up and share information. Not as good as Dean's dad had been - John Winchester had enough years of practice to make even his most haggard expression come off as rugged and trustworthy - but Sam had a practiced ease that Dean still lacked. He managed to get the full scoop from Mrs. Wentworth and her daughter Tammy in the same amount of time that Dean coaxed two words from Bob, the owner of the auto shop on the corner.

"Whatever this is, it's been going on for the past four months," said Sam. They had to speak quietly; it was a fairly small town, and odds were high that the diner would be filled with suspicious ears. "Louise Keller has been taking suitors from all over the county. They're offering an old-fashioned dowry, a piece of the family's estate… enough incentive that she's managed to draw in at least seven men, usually down-on-their-luck, desperate. She puts them to a series of tests. If they win, they get to marry her - if they don't, she kills them."

Dean stabbed viciously into his potato. Ketchup oozed out onto his plate, and he mushed the potato skin into it, no longer hungry. "And _nobody_ thinks this is the tiniest bit, oh, psychotic?"

Sam looked tired. "Maybe they're just scared."

"Of what? Saving people? If everyone knows she's a killer, why wouldn't someone -" Dean broke off, stared at his bloodied potato.

"I know," said Sam.

Dean sawed off a piece of steak, pierced it on his fork, and shoved it in his mouth. He chewed absently. "So, what are we thinking? Obviously, there's something not right in Whoville."

Sam's mouth tightened. "And Louise Keller is a hell of a Grinch." He added: "It could be demonic influence. It fits with the other weirdness that's been going on - all of it started about four months ago, which was around the same time Louise started her dating game."

"We should check out her place," said Dean. "Look for any sulfur traces, figure out if dear Louise really is possessed. You gonna eat that?"

"Nah." Sam pushed his fries over to Dean. "Help yourself."

 

*

 

The Keller house was dark and foreboding, even by suburban standards. Dean couldn't see any lights on in the windows, and there were suspicious brown stains on the battered garage door. An American flag hung in the front window, but it looked faded from the sun.

Sam squinted at the upstairs windows. "Nobody home?"

"Looks quiet." Dean took out his gun and held it low in front of him, pointed toward the ground. "Let's check out the backyard before we go inside."

"We're breaking in?" Sam smirked at Dean. "I pick a mean lock."

"Yeah? So do I." He couldn't help returning Sam's grin, ignoring the way his chest warmed at the exchange. Damn it. Dean didn't usually go for guys, but at this rate, he was gonna be writing "Mrs. Sam Harvelle" all over his notebooks in a few days.

They crept around the side of the building, and Sam made quick work of the padlock on the gate latch. No sooner had the gate swung open than Dean heard Sam swear under his breath.

"What?" Dean shouldered his way around Sam and peered into the backyard. "What's the -- _shit._"

The stench was awful, sickly-sweet and rotten, made worse by the heat and the loud buzz of flies. Sam gagged for a moment, then swallowed audibly. Dean fumbled a handkerchief from his pocket - never knew when you were gonna have to wipe down surfaces for fingerprints - and pressed it over his nose and mouth before he went through the gate. It barely helped to breathe through the cloth, but it was something, at least.

There were seven tall poles in the overgrown backyard. Each stake held a severed head, the wood pole staked through the hole of the neck. Most were rotting and crawling with maggots, barely recognizable as human anymore, but the freshest of the heads was definitely that of Keller's latest suitor. Dean tried to identify some of the others, but finally had to look away.

Sam shuddered, but took a few steps closer to the display. He was keeping his arm in front of his mouth, breathing through the sleeve of his T-shirt; when he spoke, his words were muffled.

"Is this a 'keep out' warning, or some sort of trophy room?"

"No fucking clue," breathed Dean, and then the back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching them.

He turned around, brought his gun to bear, but Louise Keller was faster. She flashed in front of Dean, wrapped one dainty hand around Sam's neck and _wrenched_, bringing him to his knees, coughing and gagging in front of her. Dean couldn't get a clear shot, but he kept the gun aimed at her anyway.

"Now, now," Keller said. She was about twenty years old, a redhead, with her pretty lipstick mouth twisted into an ugly grin. "I don't believe either of you were invited. It's not nice to trespass on someone else's property. In some places, I'd be perfectly within my rights to shoot you both."

Dean's gaze flickered to Sam, who twisted angrily in Keller's hold. Sam wasn't a small guy; there was no way that this tiny little thing could have wrestled him to the ground - with one hand, no less - without some supernatural help.

"Christo," Dean snapped, and Keller's eyes blinked black. Demon, then.

"Oh," she snarled, "You're _hunters._ Put the gun down, hunter-boy."

Dean bared his teeth. "And if I don't?"

Keller cocked her head, glanced down at Sam. Sam scrabbled at her fingers, but Dean could tell that he wasn't going to be able to break her grip easily. "If you don't, I rip your friend's head off with my bare hands," she said.

"Fine," said Dean. He lowered his gun. Keller gave him a suspicious look, like she'd expected that to be a lot harder. "But you're wrong, we're not hunters."

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean. Dean ignored him - he was just glad that Sam still had a head to raise eyebrows on. Beyond that, Sam could just be quiet. Dean had a plan.

He cleared his throat, tried to ignore the stink of rotting flesh. A fly landed on Keller's cheek, but she didn't even twitch. "We - or rather, I - have come to ask you, uh, your hand in marriage," Dean said.

Keller stared at him. Dean tried a smile. It was his crazy psychotic smile, not his flirty one, but he was betting that a demon wouldn't notice the difference.

"Really," she said flatly.

"Really," said Dean. "We didn't mean to offend you, we just - wanted to see where you lived. You're so beautiful that, uh, I thought your house must be just as, uh, beautiful. Which it is. Beautiful."

Sam was glaring daggers at him now, but he kept his mouth shut. Keller was perplexed enough that she'd loosened her grip on Sam's neck. Dean was pretty sure that was a point in his favor.

"You want to undergo the tests, then?" Keller asked. She eyed them both. "You still have to make an appointment, you know."

"Not him," Dean said quickly. "Just me. He's not interested. Not that he wouldn't be, I mean, you're beautiful and all -" shit, she was looking suspicious again. Dean grabbed at the first thing that came to mind. "Uh, he's my brother. Here for emotional support, you know. He can be best man at our wedding, whaddaya say?"

Keller crinkled her nose at Dean, then let out a very undemonic giggle. "Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself, stud?"

Dean flashed her another serial killer smile. "A-_head_? Naw. Not that I don't hope to, but I believe in ladies first."

A blank look for a second, then a slow dissolve into lustful. It made Dean's skin crawl. "_Really_."

"So, uh," said Dean. "Tomorrow work okay for you?"

Keller finally took her hand off Sam's neck. Sam scrabbled backwards on his heels and got to his feet, but Keller wasn't paying any attention to him; she pulled out a pen and scribbled on a napkin. Then, as her eyes met Dean's, she brought the napkin to her lips. She stayed where she was for one long moment, then stepped forward and pressed the napkin into Dean's hands.

"See you tomorrow, stud," she said breathily, then swept past him into the house. The screen door banged shut behind her, and Dean and Sam were left alone in a garden full of dead men.

 

*

 

"I can't believe you're doing this!" Sam was angrier than Dean had ever seen him, his cheeks bright and nostrils flared. "Dean, just don't. Just walk away."

"No," said Dean. "I won't."

"We'll go in together," said Sam. "I know some exorcism rituals -"

"So do I, dude." He dug out the book of exorcisms from his duffel bag and waved it at Sam, just to make his point. "But she's stronger than both of us, and there's no way to get the drop on her. If you show up with me, it'll just look suspicious." Dean set the book down and looked at the napkin again: a smeared red lipstick print and the words, _meet me at 8am. 359 redwood st._ She'd even added a little drawing of a heart.

"We don't even know where this place is," Sam said. "Is it some abandoned house, or is it full of other demons? What's involved in these tests? We don't know _anything_ about this situation, but you want to go charging in -"

"What else am I supposed to do, Sam?" Dean snapped. "You've heard the same stories as me - people never know where she is, unless she's at home, and we can't sneak up on her there, we _tried_. Our best bet right now is to play along - besides, I know what she is, what she's capable of. Her other suitors didn't."

Sam glared at him, nostrils flared. "Do you even hear how dumb that sounds? Shit, Dean, do you _want_ to die?"

"Don't be an idiot," Dean said, but he must have paused too long or something, because Sam went pale.

"_Dean_," said Sam, and something in Sam's tone grabbed Dean by the lungs and squeezed. He ignored it.

"Listen, if you want, you can wait right outside the building. Play cavalry if something goes wrong."

"Something's already gone wrong," said Sam. His face was all pinched up, and it was starting to piss Dean off. "Why don't we call someone?" Sam added. "There's people we could call, people who deal with demons all the time."

"There's no time," said Dean. "She's dumb enough to buy the suitor excuse once, but if I don't show up there tomorrow, she'll know something's up."

"Man, you - god. You do. You have a fucking death wish." Sam shook his head and turned away.

Dean said, "Hey." Then again, when Sam didn't move: "_Hey._" He reached out and grabbed Sam by the shoulder, spinning him around. Sam hissed a breath, and Dean realized it was the first time he'd actually touched him - they'd come so close before, sharing car space, even sharing breath, but Dean had never reached across that last distance, and neither had Sam. Sam's shoulder was tense under his grip, the muscles tight and quivering.

"Let's not do this," said Dean. "Please." Sam looked at him for a long time.

"Just go, then," Sam said finally. "Go get yourself killed, and tomorrow maybe I'll even cry over it. Would you like that?"

Dean dropped his hand. "Fuck you."

"Fuck _you,_" said Sam, sounding like his chest was being ripped open, and Jesus Christ, Dean had never been worth that tone of voice before, ever. Dean wasn't the kind of person that someone would _care_ about.

"I'm sorry," said Dean. He didn't know what else to say.

Sam reached out one hand, cautious, and touched Dean's chest, his fingers pressing hard on Dean's sternum. "Do you know what she'll do to you?" Sam asked. "She'll rip you open, Dean." He swallowed thickly. Dean could hear his throat click. "Do you want that?"

"No," said Dean. "I don't _want_ that."

Sam nodded, almost to himself. "So you're going to live," he said. "That's what you're going to do."

"Sam -"

"Shut _up_," said Sam.

He tugged hard at the neck of Dean's T-shirt, twisting the fabric around his fingers. His face was - Jesus. Dean had to look away, but he got with the program: he stepped closer, clutched at Sam's hips, and from the harsh sound that Sam made, Dean knew he'd been right. Sam wanted this.

Sam twisted them both down onto the bed, which let out an ominous squeal of springs, but Dean couldn't even care. Sam was straddling him, rubbing against Dean's hip. Dean could feel him through the layers of denim, half-hard and getting harder.

"Is this okay?" Sam asked breathlessly, still tearing at Dean's clothes. He sat up, stopped messing with the T-shirt long enough to trace careful fingers over Dean's belly. Dean grabbed his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, just -" and Dean leaned up and forced their mouths together, biting at Sam's lower lip. Their teeth clacked. It was too open and raw to be a kiss. Sam let out a weird little groan, rolled off Dean, then grabbed Dean by the belt loops and _yanked_ until Dean was practically sitting in Sam's lap.

Dean hadn't been with a guy before, but it wasn't too hard to figure out that dicks must play a pretty big role. Sam's dick was a logical next step. He extracted one of his hands from where it'd been tangled in Sam's hair, and made a valiant effort of getting Sam's jeans off his hips. He couldn't work the top button very well without looking, though, so he had to settle for rubbing at the outline of Sam's cock through the jeans. Sam tensed when Dean stroked his hand down the hard ridge of dick, let a tiny whine come out of the back of his throat.

"You want to fuck me?" Dean asked, his lips brushing Sam's. "Jesus, you've got a huge dick. You could fucking ream my ass, fuck me _flat_."

Sam's hips stuttered, and he groaned deep and low. Christ, Sam made so much _noise_. Dean wanted to eat those sounds from his mouth, make Sam fucking _howl_. He wanted to feel Sam driving into him, he wanted, wanted everything -

"Okay," Sam was saying, his voice ragged. He had one of his big hands on the side of Dean's face, thumb stroking Dean's cheekbone like he was soothing a horse. "Okay, Dean, yeah."

Dean shuddered. Fuck. He'd never felt like this before; he felt like maybe his skin would just crawl off without him if he didn't have all of Sam, right now. He ground down on Sam's dick, once, again, rubbing himself against Sam's stomach, and next thing he knew, his back hit the mattress. Sam leaned over him, breathing hard. He was still between Dean's legs, hips pressed up tight against him, but he drew away enough to pull off his shirt and help Dean with his. Then Sam managed to get their jeans off, too, and they were both naked, and Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.

Sam braced his hands on either side of Dean's head, breathing hot in his face. His cock dragged velvety wet over Dean's, a careful thrust that almost had Dean losing it. Sam was nothing but skin, skin everywhere, skin that was _Dean's_. He dragged his hands over Sam's back, squeezed his ass, then dived in with his mouth, needing to taste. He bit at one of Sam's nipples and was rewarded with another groan.

"Shit, Dean, hold on - do you have lube? Condoms?" Sam sat up a little, breaking contact with Dean's mouth.

"Lotion," said Dean. "In my bag. Don't need condoms." Sam had backed off enough that other things were beginning to filter into Dean's consciousness, which meant he was becoming aware of his own arousal; his dick was flushed nearly purple, curved up tight against his belly. If Sam didn't hurry up, Dean was probably gonna go crazy from blue balls, or else jizz all over himself without even a touch.

Sam looked like he was ready to argue about the condom thing, but then he just swallowed and leaned over to dig through Dean's bag, which was, thankfully, within easy reach of the bed. He found the old bottle of lotion and squirted some into his hands. Dean spread his legs farther apart, drawing his knees up so it was easier for Sam to reach down there. He shut his eyes tight, knew he couldn't look at Sam without spurting hot all over the place.

"Just do it already," Dean said.

Next thing he felt was one of Sam's long fingers, greasy and slick, circling his asshole. Sam pressed the tip of his finger in, then there was a twist and a slight burn and the whole thing was up there, down to the last knuckle. It felt weird. Dean bit his lip, pressed back against Sam's hand.

"Have you done this before?" Sam asked.

It was a little late to be asking that, Dean thought, but whatever. "It's fine," he said, not really answering. "Give me another."

A harsh exhale from Sam; another finger stretching Dean, and it _was_ a stretch this time - a spark of something, right at the base of his spine. Sam's knuckles rubbed against Dean's insides, rough and perfect.

"That's - that's good," said Dean, "and more lube." He wondered if he should open his eyes; the patterns bursting across the insides of his eyelids were making him dizzy.

Sam didn't say a word, just smeared more lotion into Dean's hole, worked it in until his fingers could slide smoothly in and out. Dean found himself flexing against the fingers, fucking himself against Sam's hand. Sam crooked his fingers and rubbed against something in there, and Dean's dick got even harder; he hadn't even known that was anatomically possible.

"Now," Dean gasped. Shit, he would never live this down. "Damnit, Sam, fuck me _now_."

And - fuck, it _hurt_. Dean hadn't thought it would hurt. Sam's dick breached his asshole only slightly before Dean locked down, squeezing his muscles tight at the feeling of intrusion, of _wrong_. He tried not to let on, just took a couple deep breaths. Well, that took care of his erection, at least.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked worriedly.

"I'm fine," Dean said hoarsely, "Why, why wouldn't I be fine?"

"Because you're squeezing the hell out of my arm," said Sam. And sure enough. Dean made himself let go, watched as the handprint standing out white on Sam's arm turned red. It might even bruise.

"We don't have to do this," said Sam. He was being really careful not to move, but as Dean failed to respond right away, Sam started to withdraw. It hurt less coming out, but Dean still had to take a careful breath.

"Don't," said Dean. Sam halted.

"I don't want to hurt you," Sam said.

Dean couldn't explain it, just: "I need this. Sam..." Especially if he _was_ gonna die tomorrow. It made him itch, being that open in front of someone who was practically a stranger, but it wasn't as hard as he had thought it would be. He trusted Sam.

Dean's heart gave a sudden stammer. _Trusted_ him. Fuck.

Sam looked at Dean for a long moment. Then he fumbled for the lotion again, squirting some right where the head of his cock pressed against Dean's hole. Dean almost flinched at the sensation, but Sam leaned against him and pressed his lips to the side of Dean's mouth. He rubbed the lotion into Dean's ass, over his own cock, then wrapped a slippery hand around Dean's half-hard dick and gave him a few tugs. But it wasn't quite working, not quite, not until Dean turned his head and slid their mouths together.

It was gentler, this time. Dean opened his mouth and let Sam lick his way inside, their tongues meeting in a wet clash of muscle. Sam's breath was stale, and he tasted a little like cigarettes. He leaned in, hot moist breath, forcing Dean's head back against the pillow and practically fucking his mouth. Dean felt a whimper building in his gut.

They kissed for long minutes, until Dean's jaw ached. Then Sam shifted position and Dean felt blunt hardness against his asshole. He barely had a chance to think about it before Sam was pressing forward, a wet pop as the head of his dick slid in.

Sam broke away from Dean's mouth, panting. "Oh, fuck. Is this better? Are you okay?"

Dean tried to nod. 'Okay' might be an understatement. Sam was _in_ him.

"Dean - you're so goddamn tight, _shit_." Sam slid into him the rest of the way, all the way to the hilt. Dean gasped, wordless. No pain this time, or not enough for Dean to notice past the rest. He could feel Sam in the back of his fucking _throat_, the hard pressure of Sam's dick ringing bells of sensation all over his body. A few deep breaths brought Dean back, helped him center himself, but his muscles were still quivering and he felt feverish.

"Dean?" Sam smoothed a sticky palm over Dean's face, tracing his brow, and Dean couldn't even bring himself to be embarrassed at leaning into the touch.

"Yeah," Dean said hoarsely.

"You ready for more?" Sam didn't wait for an answer, just drew out a little bit and pushed back in, a gentle nudge that made Dean's nerves light up again in a weird mix of pleasure and ache. He wanted to tell Sam to stop for a minute, just until he figured out which it was, but by that time, Sam was doing it again and Dean just went with it.

Sam went slow, barely withdrawing before he was thrusting back in, a steady rock against Dean's body. Dean was hard again, but he didn't want to touch himself; he just wanted to feel Sam inside him. The lotion-lube was starting to dry up and get sticky, changing the rhythm of Sam's fucking from a smooth glide to a rough, too-tender perfection; one particularly ragged thrust had Dean curling up from the intensity of the feeling. Sam's mouth was hanging open, and he was breathing out small curses and prayers that Dean could barely hear.

It went on forever, or something close to it. Dean wouldn't have minded longer, but Sam was getting close; he let out a moan sounding almost like Dean's name, and leaned back, pulling Dean's legs up over his shoulders and fucking into him harder. The new angle made Dean's hands and feet go numb, made something catch fire inside his gut. His cock was swollen and oversensitive, leaving wet streaks of precome all over his belly.

Sam smoothed his hands over Dean's thighs, his hips jerking slightly, his dick stiff and throbbing in Dean's ass. When he started fisting Dean's dick, at first nothing happened, and Dean wondered for a second if he was too worked up to come - but then he _was_ coming, the intensity climbing another notch, striping his stomach with strands of white. He shivered all over, and black crept in at the corners of his vision.

Sam watched Dean's face, and it wasn't until the last vestige of Dean's orgasm had bled from his body that Sam's eyes rolled back. He gave a shudder - just one - and filled Dean's ass with come.

 

*

 

Dean watched as Sam padded back to bed, all long limbs and sweaty skin, carrying a glass of tap water and a wet rag. "You thirsty?"

"Yeah," said Dean, and Sam handed him the glass. He took a big swallow of water, trying to ignore the funky taste. There was a reason Dean mostly drank beer - he never knew what kinds of chemicals and shit might end up in local tap water. But he was parched, so he drank it all and tried not to think of mercury poisoning.

Sam watched him swallow, a tiny smile on his face. When Dean was done, he took the glass and put it on the bedside table, then stretched out over Dean and kissed him.

Dean sighed into the kiss, and Sam gently ran the warm washrag down Dean's stomach, making his skin prickle. He wiped Dean's stomach clean, then moved to Dean's dick, then reached back and ran the washrag over Dean's asshole in small, gentle circles that made Dean want to purr.

"Feel good?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded. It felt amazing. Sam kept bathing Dean, letting his fingers press softly at Dean's opening, the rough texture of the washrag making the swollen flesh throb. His touch traveled away again, then back, then away, until Dean was dizzy with it.

Sam finally drew back and tossed the washrag in the direction of the bathroom. Dean raised up on his elbows, about to kiss Sam senseless and maybe go for round two, if his dick was up for it - but his elbows slid out from under him.

"What the -" Dean started, but his words were slurred, like he'd just downed half a bottle of tequila.

"Shh," Sam whispered. "It's okay, Dean, you're fine."

What?

"Sam," Dean managed to get out, "Sam, what did you…"

Sam just shook his head, and then Dean's eyelids were too heavy to stay open.

 

*

 

When Dean woke up, groggy and pissed off, night had already fallen. Sam was sitting in the shadows by Dean's bed, his large frame perched awkwardly in a chair.

"Dude," said Dean blurrily. "You drugged me?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that," said Sam.

"What the - why did you do that." Dean rolled over to face Sam, got twisted in the sheets and kicked at them weakly. "Sam. Sam?"

"I messed up," Sam said. "I was going to take care of it for you, Dean, but she wasn't there. Not anywhere. Not at the Keller house, not at the address she gave you. She probably lives somewhere else and just uses the other places for her games. I couldn't find her in time."

Dean closed his eyes. "Sam - how is _you_ getting yourself killed any better?"

"Well, I didn't get killed, did I?" Sam looked away, and the shadow of the window curtain hid his face. "I scoped out the place on Redwood, laid a few devil's traps under some rugs. I don't think she'll notice them. She might even get caught in one before you get there."

Dean's insides were screaming. He had opened up to Sam, _trusted_ him, fucking let him inside - _all the way_ inside. And - even after that, Sam had drugged him and gone behind his back. Dean couldn't wrap his head around it; he felt like his heart was being yanked out of his chest. Fuck, if it were just two days ago, Sam would have been dead already. Dean would have killed him for this.

For a second, Dean wondered if he could just nod and accept Sam's actions, if he could say, "Okay, thanks," and go in and kill that bitch with Sam by his side. But the sick twist in his gut was telling him that wasn't gonna work.

"We're in California," Dean said. "That's where you needed to go, right? You weren't lying about that, too?"

"Dean -"

"I think you can make it the rest of the way on your own."

Sam flinched, shot back: "Can _you_?"

Dean got out of bed and pulled on his jeans, then his T-shirt, ignoring both Sam's eyes and the painful twinge in his ass where he could still feel the hard fucking. Then Dean jammed his shaky feet into his boots and grabbed the book of exorcisms from the table.

"Don't wait up," said Dean.

"Wait, Dean. Please. Take this," said Sam, and he pressed a piece of paper into Dean's hand. It was a roughly sketched map of the house on Redwood.

Dean swallowed. The map crumpled between his fingers. "I don't get it," he said. "I just don't get why you'd even care so much about this, man. We've only - it's only been four days."

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. I don't _know_. I just." He didn't go on. His eyes were wide and scared.

Dean had to leave. He had to. "See you around," said Dean. Sam made a noise like he'd been punched in the stomach.

Dean looked away from Sam's face, and he left the room and closed the door carefully behind him. It felt like he'd lost a fucking limb.


	4. Down Deep Into the Earth

PART FOUR: _Down Deep Into the Earth_

It was already early morning when Dean left the motel room, so he got in the Impala and drove around town for a while. Wouldn't want to be early for his appointment.

At a quarter till eight o'clock, Dean couldn't stand it anymore, and cautiously approached the house on Redwood. He had half expected some old gothic mansion, despite Sam's cramped little sketch, but it was rather disappointing: a tiny duplex built from a sad mess of brick and vinyl siding. Dean entered cautiously, gun in one hand and holy water in the other, and kept his body angled in the direction of the hidden closet that Sam had found. Dean might easily be overpowered by this demon chick, but he'd be damned if she was catching him from behind.

He soon figured out that he hadn't needed to worry; the angry cursing and strong smell of sulfur alerted Dean to the fact that one of the devil's traps had worked. He found the demon in the kitchen. The kitchen rug was kicked aside, revealing a complex pentagram inked in Sharpie on the hardwood floor, which Keller had apparently discovered too late to avoid getting snagged. She was pummeling her fists against the invisible barrier set by the outer circle, and when Dean walked in, she turned and hissed at him.

"Should've known," she said. "Should've known it was you, _Winchester_." She said the name like a curse word.

"Hey, Louise, no hard feelings." Dean shrugged. His heart was pounding too fast, but there was a thin vein of relief running through him, too; he was still furious at Sam, but was starting to realize that Sam had probably saved his ass. "Actually, your name's not Louise, is it? You've gotten that poor girl in a shit load of trouble, sweetheart. Seven counts of murder, and everyone in town knows she's the one that did it."

Keller flailed against the devil's trap again, letting out an angry growl. She was sounding less like a girl and more like a monster with every passing minute. "What are you going to do, turn me in?" She bared her teeth at Dean. "I don't think I'd last very long in custody. Can't cage me, can't domesticate me."

Dean narrowed his eyes at her. "Now, am I wrong in thinking you're crazier than the average demon? I mean, murder, mayhem, sure - but you've got a pretty complex system going on, here."

"What can I say." Keller grinned. "A girl likes to feel special. Pampered. All those flowers and chocolates."

"And the tests?" Something in the back of Dean's mind warned him that he should get started on exorcising the bitch, but he couldn't help it, he wanted to know. She wasn't going anywhere. Dean brought out the book of exorcisms, though, just in case.

Keller snarled at the sight of the book. "The tests? For fun. Twenty questions. I'm thinking of a breadbox. Trivial Pursuit. Charades. Pick your poison. One chose Monopoly - it took a whole day before we were finished. I took his toes with his properties."

"Jesus," Dean said wonderingly. "You're one sick bitch."

She pressed her face up against the air, right where the line of the devil's trap ended, and fluttered her eyelashes. "Me, Dean Winchester? _Me?_ I might be sick, but _you_ \-- you have _no idea_ what you've just done. Better than any of us could have hoped. Where's Sammy now, Dean?"

"Sam? He's on the midnight train to anywhere," Dean snarled. "I don't think I need to hear this. In fact -" He flipped open the book, and began. "_Adjuro te, serpens antique, per judicem vivorum et mortuorum -_"

Keller thrashed. The kitchen sink cracked right down the middle and Dean couldn't help his flinch. He kept going.

"I can tell you things," she said, her voice gone hoarse and inhuman. "I _know_ things."

"_Per factorem tuum,_" Dean enunciated, practically spitting each syllable. "_Per factorem mundi, per eum -_"

Keller flattened her hands against the air. "You stupid boy," she said. "You really think a hunter like John Winchester would die of a _heart attack_?"

Dean paused. Just a split second, but he paused.

"That's right," she grinned. "Think about it. I can tell you what _really_ happened."

"_Que habet potestatem mittende te in gehennam,_" Dean continued.

Keller's smile flickered; black veins stood out at her temples, but she kept going. "Not interested? How about this, then - I can tell you something even better," she snarled. "Don't you wanna hear what happened to your precious fucking _brother_?"

Hell with this. Dean tossed the book aside and took a step closer, skipping straight to the end: "_Quia quanto tardius exis, tanto magis tibi supplicium crescit, quia non hominess contemnis, sed illum, qui dominator vivorum et mortuorum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem._ And _amen_, you fucking bitch."

In Dean's experience, despite the inevitable taunting and threats, exorcisms were always rather anticlimactic. The demon in Louise Keller was no different; it streamed out in a mess of black smoke, spent a few mad moments dashing itself against the unseen bars of the devil's trap, and edged its way through a crack near the ceiling before evaporating into nothing. Back to Hell, Dean supposed. The real Louise - whose life was pretty much ruined, now, unless she could plead temporary insanity in court - slumped to the floor, unconscious.

Dean sat down cross-legged on the linoleum, and waited for the girl to wake up. Just to be on the safe side. Once she could exit the devil's trap under her own power, Dean would see about getting her some help.

Until then, though, he was just going to sit there and very busily not think about the events of the past four days.

 

*

 

Dean dropped Louise off at the hospital, leaving her with a few awkward words of encouragement. She had been pretty hysterical, and from what Dean managed to make out, it seemed that the demon had kept her awake through all of the murders. Dean couldn't even imagine what that must have been like, and he hoped he'd never have to know.

He drove slowly back to the motel. Dean didn't want to name the feeling in his gut as hope, but whatever it was, it disappeared when he entered the room and found Sam's stuff gone. The bed was made, but the sheets hadn't been changed and Dean could still smell the sex on them.

He sat down on the bed, breathed in the stink of sweat and come, and brought his gun to his head.

The metal was cool against his temple. Soothing. So easy.

So _fucking_ easy.

But Dean couldn't do it. Goddamn him for a coward. He let his arm drop and wound up on the floor, leaning against the bedside table, gun hanging loosely in his hands. Couldn't do it. But if he wasn't going to die, he didn't know what the hell he _was_ supposed to do.

He checked out of the motel the next morning. On one last check around the room, Dean spotted Sam's hoodie crumpled behind the chair, forgotten. For a second, he was tempted to shove it in his bag - it probably smelled like Sam, and god, Dean wanted to smell him, one last time - but he shoved the impulse down, and left it where it was.

 

*

Dean drove north. After the long first day without Sam, Dean turned the radio on low just to block out the silence.

On the third day, he put on some Zeppelin and cranked it high.

And on the fourth day, he plucked out a tape at random, and was greeted by the rough, rolling voice of Johnny Cash. Dean's hand twitched to shut it off, then he stopped.

He remembered his dad listening to this tape when Dean was just a kid, his calloused hands firm on the steering wheel, the warm leather smell of his coat. Dean remembered his dad saying on the night before he died, _Dean, I just want you to know - I'm proud of you. I'm really proud of you, son._

He let it play.

When the tape finally ground to a halt, Dean said quietly into the silence: "Since when does a hunter like John Winchester die from a heart attack, huh?"

There was no answer, of course. Dean doubted there ever would be.

 

*

It was a couple weeks later -- the eighteenth of October -- when Dean realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good burger. A _real_ burger, with lettuce, tomatoes, sticky American cheese, and so much grease that the bun disintegrated in his hands. Dean was suddenly ravenous; he pulled over at the next promising-looking diner he saw, and the waitress had barely asked "What can I get you?" before he barked out an order for a cheeseburger and a huge order of onion rings.

She scurried away, but came back with a heaping plate only a few minutes later, setting it down carefully in front of Dean. She smiled at him and said, "You look hungry."

Dean snorted. "I'm _starving._ Can't remember the last time I've had a good burger. This ain't that lean beef low-fat shit, is it?"

She laughed. "Naw, our burgers are made with good ol' fashioned meat and gristle. Straight from the cow to your table."

"Damn right," said Dean, and only jumped a little when his vision was suddenly obstructed by a truly spectacular display of cleavage.

"Oh, sorry," the waitress said coyly, and straightened up. She held up a ketchup bottle. "I'm just going to... refill this for you."

Dean blinked, and took a moment to actually look at the woman. She was stacked, with a short denim skirt and tiny white T-shirt under her diner-issued apron, and she had dyed-red hair that she'd braided into two pigtails. Her face was a little old for her body, which Dean chalked up either to plastic surgery or too much make-up, but aside from that, she was hot.

"Yeah, you do that," Dean grinned. He could feel the rightness of it; one genuine non-serial killer smile, coming right up. Huh. How about that. "I can always use a little more ketchup, uh…?"

"Tasha," the waitress supplied.

"Nice to meet you, Tasha," said Dean. "I'm Dean."

It was a damn good burger. Good enough that Dean decided to stick around until the end of Tasha's shift. She had a hot, collagen-puffed mouth and, as Dean discovered soon enough, a shaved pussy. Dean spread her out in the back of the Impala, undid her pigtails and buried his hands in her hair. She writhed when he fucked up into her, her cunt tight and wet around him.

"Oh, baby," Tasha moaned, "So good."

Dean fucked her harder. Tasha was a nice girl. Dean actually even liked her. She was soft, sweet and easy. She knew that Dean would be out of her life as soon as he got off, and she didn't have a problem with it.

These were only some of the things that proved Tasha was nothing like Sam. They weren't even a little bit alike. So - it really made no sense for Dean to be thinking about Sam while he was fucking her.

He bit his lip, pressed his face against Tasha's neck, and closed his eyes. Easier that way.

 

*

 

Dean was not a go-to guy when dealing with signs and portents. He knew there was a bad ton of evil out there, but he liked dealing with the sons of bitches he could actually see. Ghosts, spirits, black dogs, wendigos, you name it, Dean could kill it, and he sure didn't mind exorcising the occasional demon. But this big thing that was on the way - whatever it was - had Dean spooked.

He thought for a little while that the signs might ease up now that Sam had disappeared. They only got worse. People in small towns were always a little batty, but now they could be upgraded to bonkers. Zombies started crawling out of the ground in Cleveland, and New Orleans was full of desiccated ghosts. Dean drove through Kentucky and saw fields full of mutilated cattle and horses, the stench rising faster than the farm owners could burn the corpses. And sometimes when Dean was driving at night and blaring Metallica loud to stay awake, a swathe of static would cut through the radio, crackling and popping almost into the shapes of words.

A few weeks later, Dean caught another demon in Arkansas where it was possessing a teenage boy. Either it was a young demon or just stupid, but first it walked right into the trap Dean laid for it and then it just huddled up and started slinging insults.

"Winchester, you spineless motherfucker," it snarled. "You're going to hell, and I'll be waiting."

"Yeah? And maybe you'll actually be scary by then," Dean retorted.

It cocked its head. "Your daddy will be waiting, too."

Dean got liberal with the holy water, and the thing writhed in pain. "Shut up."

"Don't worry, we're keeping him nice and warm for you," the demon hissed. "He's been cast to the flames for what he did."

"And just what did he do?" Dean asked. He dripped some holy water near the demon's feet and waited, the silver flask poised over its face.

The demon shrugged, its grin flickering bright as a Bunsen burner in the teenager's stolen face. "Nothing we didn't want him to. That's why it's so much _fun._"

Dean tipped the flask and poured.

 

*

 

It wasn't like Dean hadn't tried to find Sam, after that first week. Yeah, sure, he'd tried as hard as he could to forget Sam, too, but that didn't last long. As soon as Dean had gotten over Sam's betrayal, maybe even understood it a little - and after Dean finally admitted to himself that he really wanted to know if Sam was okay, and maybe even buy the guy a drink if Sam would let him - he set about trying to track Sam down.

Dean figured the first place to check would be Sam's destination in California - unfortunately, there were a ton of colleges in California, and Sam had never bothered to mention exactly where he was headed. Dean called a few possible schools, but most had never heard of Sam Harvelle, or if they had, they weren't telling. He had better luck with Stanford University, which had the name in their records but said that Sam wasn't currently enrolled as a student.

As he hung up the phone, Dean had to face the possibility that everything Sam had told him had been a lie. The thought made his chest ache.

Finally, Dean gave up and went with Plan B. He called Bobby Singer, the man who'd owed his dad a favor. He wasn't sure Bobby would be that pleased to hear from him, but at the very least, Bobby might know the location of the roadhouse Sam had talked about.

Awkward pause. "I assume you aren't calling for my health," said Bobby. "Out with it, what do you need?"

"Uh. I was wondering if you knew anything about a roadhouse for hunters. Owned by Ellen Harvelle?"

"Sure thing," said Bobby. "Ellen's good people. Lot of folks travel through there, get a drink, some information. Why?"

Dean let out a breath. Sam hadn't lied. "Does she have a son?"

Bobby paused. "Yeah."

"Right," said Dean. "And his name?" Just to be sure.

"Sam Harvelle," Bobby said slowly, like he wasn't sure that Dean was all that bright. "Sam was her oldest. Got killed by a werewolf up in Utah, not a week before your dad passed."


	5. Made a Raft Out of the Scraps

PART FIVE: _Made a Raft Out of the Scraps_

Dean tried to cover his shock, but Bobby was a perceptive bastard.

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong," Bobby said, his tone implying he knew he wasn't wrong at all, "but you Winchesters have made quite a name out of being lone wolves over the past few years. Other hunters just ain't good enough for you and your daddy. Why ask about the Harvelles now?"

"Yeah, well, my 'daddy' is dead," Dean said. "I ran into someone that mentioned the name, thought the roadhouse sounded like a good resource."

"Oh?" Bobby sounded suspicious. "Who told you about the Harvelles?" And when Dean took a moment too long to answer: "Bullshit. Why are you really calling?"

Dean tried for a moment to think of an excuse, but in the end he caved. If he needed to be locked up - or hell, if he needed a bullet in the head - Bobby was as good a person to judge as any.

"I saw him, Bobby. I _met_ him. He was a hitchhiker, he was going to California, and he wasn't a ghost, I would have known, except he must have been, right? I mean, how do you fake being ripped apart by a werewolf? Right?"

A heavy exhale. "You're talking about Sam. Sam Harvelle."

"How would I even know he existed, Bobby? Why did I go looking for him in the first place, unless I saw _something?_"

"Dean. You're saying you met Sam - _after_ his death?"

Dean nodded, staring blindly at the windshield wipers and the reflection of headlights against the light drizzle outside the car. "That's what I'm saying. But he wasn't a ghost, he wasn't an apparition, he was flesh and blood. He seemed - alive. Is that possible?"

"No," said Bobby. "Not unless you're dealing with a revenant or something similar, which you're not. Sam was cremated - a full funeral pyre, out in the woods where he died. I know, I was there. It's not remotely possible that anything living came back from that."

Dean bowed his head, leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. "Right. So, I'm crazy."

"Maybe," said Bobby. Silence for a second, then: "Call me if you learn anything else. Sam was a good kid; if there's a spirit needs taking care of, I owe that boy. I should be there. You hear me?"

Sam was dead. Sam had _been_ dead, for months before Dean met him. And yet.

"Yeah," Dean replied. "Yeah, I hear you."

 

*

 

Learning the truth about Sam didn't help Dean find him. His research turned up a death certificate citing the cause of death as wild animal attack. The body-Sam's body-had been released to his next-of-kin so he could be buried in a family plot, but there was no record of a funeral. That fit with what Bobby had told Dean. Beyond that, there was no record of Sam Harvelle at all, not even from the time he had traveled with Dean. Sam had always used cash for the motels and gas stations, never plastic.

That had to be something, though-if Sam had paid with real money, he couldn't be a spirit. Not unless Dean was just so fucked in the head that he'd covered the whole cost of the motel bills instead of half, simply imagining that Sam was paying his share. It didn't make any sense.

But there was no trace of Sam, so Dean had to give up. Other hunts came along: a couple of poltergeists in Salt Lake City, a possession outside of Boise. He kept doing his job. It was what his father would have wanted, and if Dean just kept at it for a while longer, he knew that he'd start to want it again, too. Hunting evil monsters and saving innocent lives. It wasn't a bad gig.

Then, during a nasty altercation with an ugly fucker of a hodag in Wisconsin, Dean managed to wrap the Impala around a tree.

 

*

 

He woke up in the hospital two days later. There wasn't a place on his body that didn't hurt. Sam was sitting next to Dean's bed, his face haggard and worn.

"You dumb fuck," Sam said as soon as he saw Dean looking at him. "Do you know how hard it is to find you? You couldn't just leave a credit card trail or something, you had to go and crash your fucking car."

Dean tried to respond, but the breath he took for an acerbic comeback lit up a line of fire across his ribs and he coughed and choked. Everything was kind of muzzy and he had the nasty suspicion that there were tubes sticking in places they shouldn't be. But he couldn't think about any of that. It wasn't important.

_Sam_.

"Can't even use his own fucking name," Sam muttered to himself, then to Dean: "Just-don't move, all right? I'm gonna go get the nurse."

He unfolded himself from the chair. Dean was seized with the sudden, irrational certainty that Sam would disappear again as soon as he walked out the door; he made an attempt at protest, but it didn't sound like words.

It did make Sam pause, though. He glanced at Dean, and his face crumpled a little. He reached out and squeezed Dean's foot through the blanket. "I-," he started, and paused. "I'm glad you're okay."

Sam's touch was real and solid. Maybe Dean was losing it, but that was fine. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

 

*

 

When Dean woke up a second time, his head was clearer. Sam was back in the chair next to the bed, only now he was dozing. Dean flung out one weak arm and hit Sam on the knee, startling him awake.

"Sam," Dean called hoarsely. "Sam. Sam!"

Sam immediately leaned in, his face filled with concern. "Yeah? I'm here. What do you need?"

_How are you alive,_ Dean wanted to say. _Are you even human? Are you even real?_ Instead, he said: "Car."

Sam blinked, and then his face lightened in realization. "The _car_? Seriously?"

Dean tried to give a shrug, but that only succeeded in telling him that his shoulder was fucked, too. He winced, and Sam rolled his eyes.

"It's totaled, Dean. I wouldn't let them tow it away, though; it's at a local auto garage if you wanna have a look, see if there's any hope for it."

That was all Dean could really ask for. "Thanks," he said, despite the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The damage probably wasn't as bad as it sounded, he told himself.

"Least I could do." Sam stared at him and then looked away, suddenly awkward. Dean was reminded of the last time they'd seen each other. Mysterious not-deaths aside, perhaps being unwillingly drugged immediately following the best fuck of one's life wasn't the best way they could have left things.

"Where have you been?" Dean asked. "I-I looked."

Sam gave him a wry smile. "So did I. You're not easy to find, 'Chuck.'"

"Huh?"

"I kept an eye out. When I spotted reports of hodag sightings, followed by a traffic report about a crashed Chevy Impala, I just hacked into all the hospital admittance records until I found the name that didn't belong. Chuck Berry, huh? Kind of old school for you."

"Kind of _awesome_, you mean." Dean tried to sit up and batted away Sam's offer of assistance. "What's the damage?"

"Mostly superficial. Cuts and bruises, broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, wrist fracture. Mainly they were concerned about brain damage, but they ran some tests and it looks okay now."

"Okay," Dean said. "Good. When can I get out of here?"

Like someone had heard the question, the door to the room swung open and a doctor walked in. He nodded at Sam: "Afternoon, Mr. Berry." He turned to Dean. "And to you, Mr. Berry. I'm Dr. Rodriguez. How are we feeling today?"

"Like crap," Dean said, "and ready to leave."

Dr. Rodriguez gave Dean a patented "I am a medical professional" smile. "Okay," he said. "We'll see what we can do about that." Dean offered up a silent thanks for overcrowded hospitals.

After the doctor left, Sam said awkwardly, "I told them we were brothers. I figured they wouldn't let me in, otherwise."

"Good thinking," said Dean.

"Yeah." Sam paused. "I have a car. You know, since the Impala's out of commission. Do you -?"

"Yeah," said Dean. The utter, undisguised relief on Sam's face made that place in his gut start aching again.

 

*

 

Sam checked Dean out of the hospital and drove him back to the motel where he was staying. Once Dean was comfortably settled-as comfortably as he could be, anyway-Sam hovered uncertainly.

"Do you need anything else?"

Dean shut his eyes, feeling too damn tired. "No."

"Okay."

The ensuing silence was charged with tension. Sam stared at Dean, and Dean, unable to sleep with Sam's gaze on him, stared back. Despite everything, Dean still trusted Sam. He still wanted him. Goddamnit.

"Sam," said Dean. It was permission.

"Can I come closer?" Sam asked quietly, but he was already moving. He took a couple steps forward, until he was standing at the foot of Dean's bed. "Can I - closer?"

Dean cleared his throat, and nodded again. Sam crawled up on the bed, his knees bracketing Dean's legs.

"Can I touch you?"

"Yes," said Dean, his voice cracking, everything cracking, all of him spilling out. "Yes," and Sam was already sinking toward him, careful of Dean's injuries, his hands wrapped tight around Dean's forearms. The force of Sam's kiss pressed the back of Dean's head into the pillow, muffled everything.

By the time the kiss ended, Sam was shaking. "Don't send me away again," he said. There was a weird edge of fear in his voice. "Don't make me leave. Please."

Dean would have been freaked out by Sam's desperation, except he got it; he knew where Sam was coming from, and Jesus, well, Dean was clinging back just as hard. "I won't, I'm not," Dean said quickly. "Never."

"Thank God," Sam murmured, his shoulders slumping in relief. "God."

"That's my name, don't wear it out," Dean whispered back.

Sam chuckled, suddenly playful. "Christ, I could fuck you, fuck you all night long," he muttered, pressing his lips to Dean's neck. "If it weren't for your ribs…"

Heat swirled in Dean's gut, and he tilted his head back to give Sam more access to his throat. Sam let out a deep groan and closed his mouth on the flesh between Dean's neck and shoulder. He bit lightly and Dean jerked, feeling his cock swell and press against his hospital-issue pants. Sam felt it, too, and moaned around a mouthful of Dean's skin.

Sam leaned down, his long arms and legs carefully pinning Dean to the mattress. One knee pressed up against Dean's dick. It was too much, too full of that post-injury intensity. Dean went so hard so fast that his vision swam for a second.

"Ah -- _ah!_"

"Don't come," Sam groaned. "Fuck, Dean - don't come yet. Fucking missed you." Sam drew away and shimmied out of his jeans, pitching them aside, and then tugged Dean's pants off, too. He paused and then dove for his discarded jeans, fumbled in the pocket, and withdrew a condom and a battered tube of lubricant. Dean snickered at him.

"Shut up," Sam said, smiling. "I'm just-I'm all messed up, man. Missed you, goddamnit, so fucking much-" He leaned in and nuzzled Dean's stomach, and Dean's cock gave a twitch.

"Sam," Dean gasped; he twisted under Sam's body and his ribs gave a painful twinge. He heard Sam fumbling with the lube, felt the cool wet touch of Sam's fingers and the slow, steady pressure as Sam inserted first one, then two fingers, twisting them to get Dean good and loose. Words started rising up and Dean knew he should probably think better of them, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Sam, I know what happened to you -"

Sam stilled abruptly, his fingers buried sloppy-deep in Dean's ass. Excess lubricant trailed cold and slippery down Dean's crack. "What?"

"And I don't care. _I don't care._"

"I don't- what do you mean?" Sam's face was wary.

Dean shook his head, cursing himself. "Later. Never mind. Just, just fuck me, okay?"

Sam didn't move for a second, but Dean pressed back against Sam's fingers and he got with the program. It was easier this time; Sam popped his fingers out, lined up the head of his dick with Dean's asshole, and slipped right in. Dean could feel a faint burn, but nothing to write home about. Fuck, Sam felt so good, all slow thrusts and tight, steady hands gripping Dean's hips, getting lube and sweat smeared everywhere. Dean marveled at the sweetness of it; Sam over him, in him, his eyes gentle, like Dean was something precious.

Dean couldn't keep his cool for long, not with Sam's cock riding hot up inside him; he went off the second Sam gripped his dick, let out a surprised "unh!" and shot white streaks all over Sam's arm. Sam just groaned and kept fucking Dean through it, helping him ride out the aftershocks. A minute or so later, the friction of Sam's thrusts crossed from "too much" to "ouch," and Dean squirmed beneath Sam and yanked at his hair. Sam shuddered but withdrew slowly, gripping his cock tightly and trying not to lean on Dean's battered ribs. Sam's dick looked red and angry, dripping wet with lube and pre-come.

"Come on me," Dean grunted. He stretched, displaying himself, and Sam bit back what sounded like a whimper. "Do it."

Sam bit his lip and bowed his head, fisting his dick furiously. He came with a grunt after just a few seconds and striped Dean's stomach with come, and oh, fuck. Dean ran a hand through the mess of come on his skin and something hot and sick stirred in his belly. He felt shaken, too exposed, and was glad when Sam didn't look closely at his face, just gently shoved Dean over onto his side and curled around him.

Dean's ass was sore and his wrist and ribs were aching, but for the moment, none of it really mattered. He let out a shuddery breath and let himself relax against Sam's body. Sam traced careful fingers up Dean's spine, outlining each knob of vertebrae with a light touch.

He dozed for a while, knocked out by the aftermath of sex and painkillers, and woke up feeling groggy and gross. Sam was still tucked against his side, but Dean could tell he was awake. Dean stared at the ceiling and laid his palm on the back of Sam's neck.

"I talked to Bobby Singer."

Sam stiffened.

"He gave me your mom's number, but I thought she might not appreciate my call. Especially when I was calling looking for _you._"

Dean could hear Sam inhale, like he was about to speak.

"Don't." Dean's eyes were starting to burn. His grip tightened on Sam's neck until he could feel Sam swallow. "Just tell me something, man. I think I deserve that much."

A single nod; vertebrae moving under Dean's fingers.

"What are you?"

Long silence, then: "_What_ am I?" Sam laughed softly. "I don't know. I really don't."

"If I let go," said Dean, "if we both go to sleep again - will you still be here in the morning?"

"Yes," said Sam.

"Will _I_ still be here in the morning, or are they gonna find bits of me all over the parking lot?"

"Fuck off, Dean. I wouldn't hurt you." Sam reached up, took Dean's hand from his neck, and laced their fingers together. "I swear."

"Okay." Like the rest of him, Sam's hand was warm and solid. Real. "That's what I thought."

 

*

 

The next morning, Dean woke up sore and cranky. His wrist felt like it was on fire. Sam was still asleep, and Dean stared at him for a few long minutes before he got up to shower. He had to wrap his cast in plastic trash bags, and by the time he finished, he was aching all over. When Dean finally emerged from the bathroom, clad only in unbuttoned jeans, Sam had already visited the nearby gas station and picked up coffee and Krispy Kremes.

"Mm," Dean greeted, after grabbing a donut and taking a huge bite. "Mornin'."

Sam smiled back wanly, and Dean put down the donut. "Sam, what-"

"I knew that the werewolf clipped me pretty good," said Sam.

Suddenly, Dean wasn't hungry.

"Then I thought I passed out or something, but when I woke up, I was - well. I was out in the woods, still, but somewhere different. And I could smell this _stink_ \--"

Dean sat down and looked at his toes, pale against the carpet. "They burned you."

"Yeah." Sam scrubbed his hands over his face. "Yeah, they did. I figured it out pretty quick, but I didn't know why I was still _there_, you know? Why I was - alive. I thought maybe the werewolf did something, but -"

"Fuck," Dean muttered. He hated to think of Sam alone- terrified.

"Um. Then I figured I was some sort of ghost." Dean gave him a startled glance, and Sam smiled weakly. "I know, crazy, right? But so many other weird things were going on, that I just... I mean, I could touch things, but I wasn't sure if I could touch people. That's why I was careful around you at first. I thought maybe you'd be able to tell."

"You really have no idea why?"

Sam shook his head. "No. But I decided, you know, maybe I'm wrong, or bad somehow. But I'm still _me_, as far as I know. And I can still help people. So that's what I'm going to do."

Dean huffed a laugh. "Save people, hunt things?"

"Something like that," said Sam.

Dean stared at his donut, and after long deliberation, took another bite.

Sam's mouth pinched. "So, I just bared my soul to you, and your response is to eat a donut?"

"It's jelly-filled," Dean replied.

Sam was startled into a laugh. "Well, if it's jelly-filled."

Dean put the donut down. It leaked a bit of jelly on the bedside table, and he wiped it up with his thumb. Then he cleared his throat, not quite believing what he was about to suggest. "Uh. So, I know this guy. Great guy, awesome car. Seems like he could use a partner in the hunting business. And he might not ask too many questions about why people are or aren't dead."

Sam tilted his head, mouth twitching, eyebrows lifted. "I don't know. Depends-does he listen to Metallica? Cause if he does, I just don't know if we can make it work."

"Smart ass," Dean mock-growled. "Is that a 'yes' or what?"

"Yeah," said Sam, breaking into a grin. "It's a yes."

 

*

 

Dean was healing up, and it was about time to check out of the slimy motel where he and Sam had been staying and see about getting the Impala road-worthy again. He'd been relieved to see that it wasn't impossible; the major problem was the crumpled hood and front bumper, but it was nothing Dean couldn't fix with a bit of time and TLC.

The only problem with Dean's plan for repairs was that Dean was a bit… distracted.

"Oh-_Jesus-_"

Sam writhed beneath him; his skin was shining with sweat and his bangs were damp and sticking to his forehead. Dean ran a placating hand over Sam's hip and pressed closer, driving his tongue into Sam's asshole, licking deep circles around the tense, sensitive bit of muscle. Sam jerked, the heel of one foot digging hard into the flesh of Dean's shoulder.

Dean drew away, licking his lips and sending Sam a smirk. "How about it?"

"Yeah," Sam gasped. "Yeah, do it, _fuck_. Touch me."

Dean pressed Sam's legs back against his chest, spreading him open, and rolled forward a little to snag the tube of lube from the bedside table. Sam whined and tried to rub against Dean's stomach, but Dean interrupted him with a squirt of cold gel.

"Hey! That's cold, dude," Sam sniped. His brow crinkled and he pressed up against Dean, the lubricant slippery between their bodies.

"So pushy," Dean muttered, trying hard to pretend it didn't make him hot. He smeared the lube all around Sam's hole, then pushed in a couple of fingers. Sam's breathing changed, got shallower, like he was trying hard to feel everything Dean was doing. It went straight to Dean's dick; he added another finger, ducking close to Sam's ass so he could watch what he was doing.

And oh, the way Sam's asshole stretched around his fingers was just-fuck. Dean leaned down and licked around his index finger, flicking his tongue against that soft, reddened skin and the tender places where Sam's flesh met his own invasive touch. Sam made a noise that Dean couldn't describe.

"C'mon, man," Sam demanded, his voice cracking. "More?"

"Wait," said Dean. He leaned a little of his weight against Sam's legs, keeping them on his shoulders, and bent down to take Sam's dick in his mouth.

It was strange, and Dean forgot to cover his teeth at first until Sam said "ouch," but then things started to click and slide together, slick with saliva. Dean decided he kind of liked sucking dick. The pulse in Sam's cock was beating so hard Dean could feel it, and Dean pressed closer, thanking junk food binges for his nonexistent gag reflex.

Then his cell phone rang.

"Fuck," Sam swore.

Dean, cursing the phone, drew back apologetically, licking his lips. "Sorry. It might be-"

"Parts for the Impala, I know," Sam said tiredly, but he smiled as he snagged the phone from the bedside table and passed it to Dean. Sam's long legs slipped from Dean's shoulders and he sat up with a wince, unabashedly naked, his dick still hard.

Dean didn't bother to glance at the caller ID, just cleared his throat and answered, in his best fuck-off-and-die tone, "Yeah?"

"Dean Winchester?"

"Uh-huh?" Dean shrugged at Sam's questioning look. "Who is this?"

"It's Bobby Singer."

Dean stood up from the bed. His hand felt sticky with lube and he stared at it, ran his tongue around his mouth to collect the traces of Sam's taste. "What do you want?"

"Is Sam with you?"

"None of your goddamn business," Dean barked, and immediately regretted it. No answer was answer enough.

A brief pause, then: "Good. I need both of you out in Illinois as soon as you can make it. Shit's going down."

Dean shook his head. "Just-leave us alone. I talked to Sam, and it's not what you think. But it's hard to explain. If you think we're just going to walk into some trap-"

"Shut up and _listen_, boy."

For a second, Bobby sounded so much like his dad that Dean fell silent out of reflex. From the bed, Sam- sweat-soaked and waiting-patiently Sam, Sam who should be dead- said, "Dean, who the hell is on the phone?"

"This isn't about Sam," said Bobby. "It's about Jo Harvelle."


	6. All the Tiny Shattered Parts

PART SIX: _All the Tiny Shattered Parts_

 

With the Impala still out of commission, they had to jack a shitty Nissan from a nearby rental lot. Only hours later, they pulled up at the motel that Bobby had directed them to. Sam had been quiet on the drive, only speaking to ask questions that Dean couldn't answer. Dean hoped that Bobby would have something more to tell Sam-and he hoped that Sam's sister wasn't dead, or worse.

Bobby was waiting for them on a bench outside the motel's office. He had a grim set to his jaw and a battered baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Bobby spared Dean a cursory nod, but when Sam followed Dean out of the car, something eased in Bobby's expression.

"Sam," he said quietly. "Hell, boy, it's good to see you standing."

Dean glanced over just in time to see Sam's mouth waver, like he was trying not to cry. He suddenly felt guilty. It couldn't be easy for Sam to know something was wrong with his family and not know what it was.

But Sam said only, "Hey, Uncle Bobby."

Bobby just sighed and tugged Sam into a tight embrace. Then he drew back and stared into Sam's face for a long moment. "I'm staying in room eighteen," he said. "Sam, I think you'd better come with me. I have a lot to tell you."

"Wait a second," Dean interrupted, knowing he sounded like an asshole but not really caring. "What's going on? What's happened to Sam's sister?" And: "We can talk about it just fine out here."

"It's okay, Dean," Sam cut in. "I trust him, okay? I've known Bobby all my life."

Dean looked over at Sam. And oh, but this was a different Sam than he knew. Dean's Sam was smart and sexy and a little scary, a little bit dangerous. But this Sam, the Sam that Bobby knew, seemed a lot younger, and Dean was reminded that Sam was only nineteen. He was a scared kid, and Bobby was probably the closest thing he had to a father, and Dean- Dean didn't belong here.

He didn't realize he was taking a step back until he did, and Sam's expression changed in a way Dean wasn't sure he liked. It didn't matter, though, because if something had happened to Jo, then Sam would probably be going home. Then it wouldn't matter what he thought of Dean.

"Come on, Sam," Bobby said gently. He turned to Dean. "Join us when you're ready. We all three have a lot to talk about." And then he handed Dean a thick manila envelope. It was wrapped in a plastic bag, and Dean spotted a note taped to the side of the package: the United States Postal Service apologized for the delay in delivery.

"I got this in the mail just a few weeks ago. I tried to call you straight away, but your phone was out of service. It's from your father." He glanced at Sam, whose brow was creased in confusion. "Son, you'd better let Dean read this on his own."

Dean barely noticed when the two of them left for Bobby's room, he just sank down on the vacated bench, his sweaty hands sticking to the paper of the envelope.

The envelope had already been carefully opened, but Dean ripped into the paper anyway and pulled out a thick stack of documents. Most of it seemed to be a random assemblage of notes and photocopied maps, but on the very top was a letter written in John Winchester's thick, blocky capital letters.

> _In the event of my death, I request that the following letter be delivered to Bobby Singer for safe-keeping until such time as it can be given to my son Dean. _
> 
> Dean:   
> If you're reading this, I'm dead. Because I probably didn't get the chance for last words, just know that I'm proud of you and always will be. You're a good man and a good soldier.  
> There's another reason I'm writing this letter. It might be kinder to let you go on not knowing, but you deserve the truth. I can't write it here, but I want you to ask Bobby to tell you. He'll know what you need to hear. This is important, Dean. You can never visit. You can never even call. It's too dangerous, and any unwanted attention could lead to someone getting hurt. Bobby will explain the rest. I'm sorry.   
> Nothing much else to say. Be smart. Be safe. Take good care of the car. I love you.  
> Dad  
> P.S. If you ever get tired of hunting there's $25,000 in a bank account in Milwaukee. You can make a real life for yourself or you can buy ammo. Up to you.

 

Dean stared at the letter for a long moment. He didn't need to read the rest of the papers. He already knew. But he would read them anyway.

He tossed the letter aside-it was useless anyway, just a bunch of unanswered questions-and and turned to the next page, which said:  
_  
_

> _(Bobby, please give this to Ellen and to her ONLY.)_

Ellen,  
If you're reading this, it means some evil SOB finally got the better of me. I just want to thank you one last time for everything you've done. I couldn't be prouder. I wish there was some way to tell him that. Just know that for all my regrets, I have never regretted my decision to come to you for help. My boy couldn't have asked for a better family.   
I've never been good with words, you know that, but I was real sorry to hear about Bill's passing. Maybe I'll get a chance to tell you that in person someday and you won't have to hear it in this letter.  
John W.

The paper creased between Dean's fingers. He flipped the page over. Scrawled in blue ink on the back of that sheet was a note dated the day his dad died.

> _Bobby --- Ellen called. My son is dead. It's my fault. Everything I did, I did it so Sam would be safe, but he wasn't safe. If you were here right now you'd be trying to talk me out of this, but you're not, and I've failed my son too many times. I won't let it happen again.   
>  If all goes according to plan, Sam's going to need to know what happened. Dean, too. I'm including some of my notes so they know what they're up against. Maybe this still isn't the right choice, but it's the only one I can live with._

Dean + Sam-please know that I had only the best intentions in keeping the two of you apart.

Sam, there is so much I want to say to you and tell you. I hope you understand why I had to do it. I never wanted to give you up, but there was no choice. Maybe it's best to let things lie, but I'm a selfish old man. I'd rather die knowing that you're going to be a target than live knowing you died and I couldn't do anything about it. You can hate me if you want, I'll understand.

Dean, take care of your brother. He needs you.

I love you both.  
Dad   
Dean dropped it, all of it, the whole pile of papers. They scattered on ground, the pristine white pages getting scuffed up with dust. He wanted a wind to pick them up, scatter them, but there wasn't even a breeze.

He stared at the pages for a moment, but discovered he suddenly couldn't stand the sight of his own father's handwriting. He turned and walked.

"Dean?" Sam called from behind him. "Dean!" Dean didn't need to look back to know that Sam was going to pick up the letter and read it. He was going to know. He was going to know everything.

Take care of your brother. His _brother_.

Dean didn't know if he wanted to throw up or cry like a little girl.

 

*

 

He didn't get a chance to do either: Bobby followed him. They walked along the side of the road for a while, Bobby following at a good arm's length, before Dean's legs gave out and he sank to his knees. Bobby sat beside Dean on the gravel and was silent for a long minute while Dean tried to breathe.

Then Bobby said, quietly: "Ellen and I - and Ellen's Bill, God rest him - we were the only ones that knew about it. John wouldn't even tell us the whole reason, just said that he could protect one of you better than both from whatever was out there. And Sam was just a baby. We didn't think much of it at the time. Told him he didn't have to do it, but he insisted, and Ellen and Bill had already been trying for years. Course, after they got Sam, Ellen had Jo. Ain't that the way it works." Bobby cleared his throat and stared at the road. There were no cars. "And then a couple years ago, John starts talking about this demon. He was convinced that it had some sort of plan, and that it - that it wants Sam."

Dean lifted his head from his hands, startled from his self-recriminations. "_Wants_ him?"

Bobby didn't look him in the eye. "I didn't know any details at the time. It was John's hunt. Personal. And I've got enough uppity demons on my own watch." He shook his head. "'Course, by the time I figured out that John's demon was a bit more than uppity, it was too late. After Sam died, John called the thing. The way he probably figured, there ain't no other demon that would've wanted Sam back in the running more. He had a bargaining chip."

"And it worked."

"So it seems." Bobby sighed. "It was a damn fool thing to do, but Sam's alive. John would have thought it was worth it. Still, I can't even begin to wrap my head around the mess you two boys are in now."

Dean hung his head and stared at the worn, cracked leather of his boots. "Do you know more about this demon? Where we can find it?"

"I reckon. John's notes are extensive; he spent years after this thing, remember. And I'm not too shabby at tracking demons, myself."

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. "And this plan? That it has for Sam?"

Bobby's mouth was tight. "John was just guessing at first, back when he first gave Sam up. I thought he was crazy when he first mentioned it to me. But Sam's not the only baby to have his mother die in a burning nursery."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed hard. "Uh. Can you give me a minute?"

"No," said Bobby. "I can't give you a minute. Your brother's _sister_ has been captured by a satanic cult in Gary, Indiana. I've called in some other hunters, but we're closer to her location than anyone, so you two have to work with me on this." He paused, his voice gentling.   
"I know it's a lot to take in, but Jo's life is at stake. And I'm not going to let that girl get killed because you can't deal with the fact that you've suddenly got family again."

Dean nodded. He ran a hand through his hair. "Okay."

 

*

 

Dean waited on the hood of the dinged Nissan. He knew that he should go into the motel room and help make plans for getting Jo Harvelle out of the cult's grasp, but his head was buzzing. Bobby must have told Sam the whole story before he came after Dean, Dean suddenly realized. Sam already knew what they were, what they had done.

It was almost an hour later when Sam came out to find him. Dean's head ached and his eyes itched, but Sam just stood there, watching him. He looked almost as wrecked as Dean felt.

"He told me you died, you know," said Dean. "I didn't know you weren't dead." He smiled grimly. "I coulda taken care of you. We both could've. But instead, he gave you to the Harvelles to raise, so they'd keep you safe. He thought it would be… better." Dean chuckled slightly and then fell quiet. "Why did he think it would be better?"

A long pause. Sam squatted down and his hand closed on Dean's elbow. "Dean."

"What good is it gonna do now, Sam?" Dean shook him off. "For almost twenty years, I think that I don't have a brother - and all along, you were right here, Sam. You were right in front of me, and -"

"You couldn't have known. _Shit_, Dean."

"I fucked up, Sam. I shoulda been taking care of you." Dean let out a weak laugh. "I'm so angry at him, Sam. I keep thinking, how could he keep this from me? Keep _you_ from me? And then I think maybe you wouldn't even be here now, if not for him. What he did. Would I never have known you?" He closed his eyes. "I'm not angry. I don't know what I am."

Another long pause. Dean couldn't look Sam in the face.

Sam's hand found its way back to Dean's wrist. "I - Dean. Man, I just. I'm sorry. I just can't do this. Not right now."

Dean stopped, opened his mouth. Closed it. Right. "Okay." He swallowed. "It's okay, I get it."

Sam closed his eyes, bowed his head. His hair fell thick over his eyes. "Can you help me? Jo-"

"Of course, Sammy," Dean interrupted. "Of course."

Sam gave him a grateful nod and went back inside the room. Dean could hear Sam and Bobby exchanging a couple of words.

Dean looked out at the road. It would be so easy just to get in the cramped Nissan and go. If he stayed, he'd still have to face losing Sam. It would happen, one way or another. It would just be a longer process, probably more painful.

But Sam needed him. And Jo Harvelle, who liked REO Speedwagon and had a big brother who loved her, needed him too.

He was still sitting there when Sam and Bobby came out of the motel room, ready to leave.

 

*

 

On the way to Gary, they stopped to refill at a gas station. Bobby went inside to pay and Sam, who had been riding in Bobby's pick-up, walked over and got in the Nissan with Dean. The silence stretched.

"You want to say something, just say it," Dean said finally, full of dread. Better to get it over with.

Sam bit his lip. "There's, uh. There's an explanation for what happened to us," he said. "It's called genetic sexual attraction. It's rare, but they've noticed it happening in, uh, cases where children are adopted, or -"

"Jesus, Sam!" Dean exploded. He stopped and took a breath before continuing: "Shut up, I don't need the textbook, okay? I was _there_."

"What do you need, then?" Sam's lips quirked slightly, a mockery of a smile. "I guess... at least now I know why I feel like I've known you all my life, huh."

Dean stared straight ahead.

"Look, Dean -"

"I remember when Mom brought you home from the hospital," Dean interrupted. He hadn't thought about it in years. It used to hurt too much. "You were this tiny little red thing, all wrinkled, and." Dean took a breath. Looked over at Sam's face, reminding himself why he needed to do this. Sam stared back at him.

"You didn't cry much, not at first, and Mom and Dad were just - just crazy about you." Dean huffed a laugh. "They thought you were the best thing ever. I guess I should have been jealous. That's how you're supposed to react when a new baby comes into the family, right? But I wasn't. Not jealous at all. I was crazy about you, too."

Sam's voice was quiet. "Dean."

Dean closed his eyes. "Yeah, Sammy?"

"What happens if I don't regret it?" Dean could hear Sam's throat click as he swallowed, the moment was that silent. "What if I - not any of it."

Dean had no response.

"Doritos and Slim Jims," Bobby announced from outside the passenger window, and Sam jumped in his seat. "You boys hungry?"

"Starved," said Dean. He swung open his door and reached to take the bags from Bobby.

It was only another hour to Gary; it would all be over soon.

 

*

 

Bobby had done his own research in addition to Jo's, and had verified that the cultists were big on the knives and ritual sacrifices, but not so great on the critical thinking or the guarding of prisoners. It was just sheer dumb luck that they'd managed to get the jump on Jo to begin with. Bobby and Sam had come up with a simple plan: one of them would stage a diversion, and the other two would run in, guns blazing, to get Jo out.

"Sorry, Sam," said Bobby, "but I think Dean and I should be the ones to go in. If her dead brother comes to rescue her, Jo's going to be asking a few more questions than we really want to deal with while we're in the middle of the enemy's camp."

"Yeah, I know," said Sam, although he looked like he'd just swallowed a mouthful of piss. "Just call me Diversion Guy."

The camp was just that: a small settlement on a campground in the outskirts of Gary. Bobby had managed to find a hiding place in a wooded area that rose on a small hill over the campsite, and they'd parked the truck there and started scouting out the place using binoculars. There were several regular camping tents, then a couple larger canvas tents that served as places for meetings and meals. Bobby thought that Jo was probably being kept in the smaller of these tents, guarded by three of the cult members. There were a couple of faded pink flamingos stuck in the grass in front of where the guards sat.

"Ready?" Bobby asked.

Sam looked at Dean. Dean nodded, not meeting his gaze. "Ready."

 

*

 

Dean could hear the clanging of metal, part of whatever contraption Sam had rigged up to attract attention. He hoped Sam had sense enough to run like hell once he was spotted. God, if the idiot got himself killed again, Dean wasn't gonna feel sorry.

Bobby knocked shoulders with Dean and nodded toward the tent. They went. Sam's diversion had worked: there was only one guard left, an aging bald man wearing long black robes. Dean cracked him over the head with his gun and the man crumpled. Easy-peasy.

"In here," Bobby whispered, and together they dragged the man's unconscious body into the tent. Dean busied himself with tying the man's wrists as Bobby headed straight for the tent's occupant, a blonde girl who was gagged and handcuffed to a chair. The table next to her held the remains of someone's fried egg dinner, flies buzzing noisily around it.

"Bobby!" the girl-Jo-exclaimed once Bobby had the gag off her. "Jesus Christ, I was starting to think I was actually a goner." She was young and skinny, probably in her late teens, and her face and hair were smeared with mud, but there was something about her that was striking. Dean knew the look. This girl was always in over her head but had decided she liked it there.

"Not on my watch," Bobby grinned. "What the hell were you thinking, hunting on your own? Your momma's been worried sick."

Jo produced a paperclip from her mouth, spit it into her palm, then set to work on the handcuffs. "I can take care of myself. I was just outnumbered, that's all." Flippant, like a camp full of devil worshipers trying to get their rocks off was no big deal. She nodded her head at Dean. "Who's the cutie?"

"Dean Winchester," said Dean. "You must be Jo Harvelle. It's a pleasure."

A handcuff clicked free and Jo started on the other. Bobby watched, looking rather amused. "That'd be me," Jo said. "So, should we be getting out of here or something? Mom's gonna _kill_ me."

Bobby nodded toward the tent flap. "We've got a couple of minutes, but Sam-uh, the distraction probably won't last much longer. Time to run for it."

"Oh, goodie," said Jo, and then before Dean had a chance to flinch, she grabbed a frying pan from the table and swung it at Bobby's head. Bobby went down with a grunt and Jo immediately dropped the pan, her palm blistering an angry red. "Fucking _iron_," she muttered.

Then Jo turned to Dean, her eyes flaring a sickly yellow. "Now, Dean Winchester, how about we introduce ourselves properly?"


	7. Sun's Been Known to Shine

CHAPTER SEVEN: _Sun's Been Known to Shine_

 

Dean still had his gun in his hand and was ready to use it, but Jo snapped her fingers and the gun was torn from his grip. It hurtled across the tent and came to rest in the corner, far from Dean's reach.

"Now, Dean, that's not very nice," Jo admonished. "Trying to shoot a poor, defenseless girl like that. I mean hell, Dean, we're practically family."

Dean stood his ground. "Who the fuck are you?"

The thing inside Jo shrugged, and its lizard-golden eyes gleamed. A demon, obviously, but not one like Dean had seen before. "Let's just say we have a common interest," said Jo.

"I don't know what you mean." Dean glanced at Bobby's still form and hoped like hell that Sam wouldn't wonder what was keeping them and blunder into this mess.

"I think you do," said the demon. "I think you know exactly what I mean." She shook her mud-streaked blonde hair away from her face and smiled. "Your beloved brother, Samuel Winchester. Or, wait, he's going by a different name now. How precious. Would you rather I called him Harvelle? Would that make you feel better about fucking him?"

Dean cast a glance around the tent, looking for something, anything he could use as a weapon. "Shut up," he said. "I didn't _know_."

"But now you know, and yet, you still want to," said the demon. "That's the real kicker, isn't it? It's what made me decide I had to meet you. Such an interesting piece of the puzzle."

"You son of a bitch. What do you want with Sam?" Dean abandoned his search for a weapon and faced her, hands fisted at his sides. "That's you, isn't it? The yellow-eyed motherfucker who killed my father?"

"Your father was weak. I have more faith in you." The demon licked its lips slowly, considering. "I want to make a deal, Dean Winchester."

Dean stared. "What? No."

"I think you'll change your mind when you hear what I have to offer," it said, smiling sharply with Jo's mouth. "All I want is your cooperation."

"And I'm telling you, _no._"

"I can give you your father back. Just the way he was." Jo took a few steps forward and tapped her fingertips along Dean's arm. "He won't remember hell. He'll be just as you remember him. You remember the last thing he said to you?" She leaned closer. "'_I'm proud of you, boy.'_ His goodbye." Yellow eyes glinting up at Dean, clashing horribly with the gold of Jo's hair. "But it doesn't have to be."

Dean's throat closed up. He stepped back, breaking contact with the demon, and forced himself to laugh. "Right. And the catch?"

"No catch." Jo lifted her chin. "All you have to do is walk away. Leave baby brother to his real family, where he'll be safe. There's a reason you were never supposed to meet; John knew that you would only get him killed."

"That's not true." Dean edged toward the tent flap and cast another look at Bobby. Still unconscious, and looking to stay that way.

"You know it is. You and your daddy were flawed, too wrapped up in yourselves. Good _soldiers._ How would little Sammy have fared in that life?" The demon shrugged, the motion matching, rather disconcertingly, that of a teenage girl. "I only have Sammy's best interests in mind," it said. "It's scary out there."

"Scary. Like you and your kind weren't the ones to make it that way?"

Jo-the demon-grinned. "Why, I'm flattered you've noticed. It's quite an accomplishment, isn't it? The world's breaking down. Little pieces of reality flaking off and falling into hell. We're years ahead of schedule, even without your brother's help."

The demon noticed Dean's startled reaction. "Oh, didn't you know about Sammy?" A cruel, cocky grin. "He's not all sunshine and unicorns, if you know what I mean. The poor boy didn't really come back…_right._ He gets that from his mother's side."

"Don't talk about my mother," Dean snapped.

The demon stared at him for a moment, then let out a sudden cackle. "You mean, you don't know? Daddy never _told_ you that I was there?" It grew serious, Jo's face smoothing into a mask. "I'm the reason you're an _orphan_, boy. You want to see how she died? Screaming, crying, roasting on the ceiling like a rotisserie chicken?"

"Fuck you." Dean was in front of the tent flap now and just had to hope that he could outrun a demon, or at least get to a gun before his intestines were ripped from his body. "I don't believe you." But Dean's mother _had_ died in a burning nursery-and his father _had_ thought this demon had a plan for Sam. Dean felt dizzy, and wondered how much of this was in the notes that his father had left him.

"Your loss," said the demon.

Its flippancy gave Dean new resolve. "No deal," he said harshly. "Did you honestly think I'd ever listen to you? Not to mangle Alice Cooper, but: you're fucking _poison_."

"Of course I knew you wouldn't deal," the demon said, leaning casually against the table. "But a girl has to give it her best shot." It paused, cocked its head. "And speaking of 'shot'…"

Dean threw himself to the side, trying to dive through the tent flap, but he wasn't quick enough. The sound of the gunshot was loud, and Dean spared a second to think of the unwanted attention the noise would draw, but then the pain kicked in and he didn't really think of anything else for a while.

 

*

 

Dean woke up in the woods, slumped next to Bobby's truck. Bobby himself was sitting next to Dean, peering at his face.

"Sam?" Dean gasped. "Where's-"

"Right here, you jackass." Sam pressed a wadded piece of cloth to the wound in Dean's shoulder. "Stop squirming, you're losing blood."

Dean shook his head, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Sam, I'm sorry… Jo-"

"Possessed," Sam interrupted. "Yeah. Bobby told me."

"Bobby." Dean rolled his head to look at him. Another wave of pain rolled through him, but he ignored it. "What happened?"

Bobby shrugged. "Once I came to, I played dead and waited for an opening. When she tried to shoot you, I knocked her off target and doused her with some holy water. It was a close call. I had to drag you out of there and we barely got away in time."

Sam added, "The other hunters that Bobby called finally showed up, and they're working on rounding up the cult members." He paused. "Jo's gone, though. No one can find her."

"It was the demon," Dean said quietly. "The one that Dad was looking for. The one he made a deal with."

Bobby swore under his breath. Sam just looked at Dean, his face unreadable. His hands were streaked with red from Dean's shoulder.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. "Hey," he said shakily. "What's a guy gotta do to get some stitches around here?"

 

*

 

Dean dreamed-

_"What if I want to do it again," Sam whispers. His bloody mouth twists, and he blinks up at Dean with eyes the color of lemon-peel._

-and jolted awake. It was night, the room dark, with pale light from the moon shining dimly through the curtains. He was lying on the fold-out cot at Bobby's house, and his shoulder was throbbing like a motherfucker. Sam was there beside him, sitting silently, his long legs tucked up under him in the recliner.

"You awake?" Sam spoke quietly, just in case Dean might not be.

Dean nodded. Sam wordlessly offered him a glass of water, and then helped him drink it when sitting up proved to be too painful a task.

"What are you doing up?" Dean's voice was hoarse, and he coughed a little to clear it. "You should be getting some sleep."

"I've been thinking." Sam bit his lip and looked down. "Bobby and I had a long talk. We agreed that I, uh, I can't really go home."

"Shit. Sammy…" Dean, his jealousy forgotten, reached out a hand and was mildly amazed when Sam took it. Sam gave his fingers a squeeze and then let go.

"Yeah. But with Mom not knowing I'm alive, and Jo off who knows where… it's safer for them. Bobby's going to make sure Mom knows there's danger, just not _why_. I'm sure that'll drive her crazy, but-" Sam broke off.

"How'd she take the news about Jo?" Dean asked gently.

"Shit, Dean." Sam's face crumpled a little. "She's all alone now. What happens to her if-if Jo doesn't come back? I mean, we don't even know where to find this demon. We don't know if… it might just kill Jo."

Dean shook his head slowly. "I don't think it will."

Sam's head snapped up. "What?"

"It wants _you_, Sam. Jo getting captured, hell, that whole mess-I think it was some sort of test. For you."

Sam's mouth thinned. "What makes you think the test wasn't for _you_?"

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe it had been. Dean didn't say that. He just said: "Get some rest."

"I will," said Sam, and made no attempt to move. He was still sitting there in the dark when Dean finally fell back to sleep.

 

*

 

Bobby agreed to let them stay at his place until both Dean and the Impala were fixed up. As soon as Dean could handle a wrench, he was out in the auto yard, trying to whip his girl back into shape. On the other hand, Sam, with the exception of the night they had spoken, usually avoided Dean and tended to communicate in grunts like a sullen teenager. Which he was, Dean had to keep reminding himself, but it was such a change from the Sam he had known that sometimes Dean wondered if Sam was just trying to play the role of annoying kid brother. Maybe he was just trying to make this easier on them both.

Dean figured that his contribution to making it easier was to get his car road-worthy again. Once the Impala was back to her usual self, then everything else would have to fall into shape, too. Dean would take off-either alone or with Sam, although the former was looking more and more likely.

Then, about half-an-hour after Bobby drove into town on an errand run, Sam swung open the door to the Impala and slouched down in the passenger seat. When Dean looked over from where he had been buffing the steering wheel, Sam's face was blank.

"What if I want to do it again?" Sam asked.

Dean got a weird feeling of déjà vu, but shook it off. He sighed. "Sam. It's not gonna work."

"Listen." Sam squared his shoulders and sat a little bit straighter. "I know this is weird. But… I've already died once. I lost my family. I found a brother I didn't know I had. There's a demon after me for who-knows-what reason. The world is ending. And I _miss_ you."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Well, then I guess that makes _incest_ all hunky-dory, doesn't it? Call up Donny and Marie."

"_Fuck,_ Dean." Sam drove a fist into the dashboard and turned to Dean, eyes dark and angry. "Does everything have to be a goddamned _pop culture reference-"_

"Yes!" yelled Dean. "Look, I'm trying, okay?"

"What are you trying, Dean? Because I'm sitting here, I'm trying to tell you I _want_ you, and you're just shutting me down-"

"I'm trying to be your _brother_, all right?" Dean's voice came out too loud, too angry, and Sam fell silent and turned his face away. "Shit. Sammy-"

"Don't call me that." Sam sniffed, but when he turned back to Dean, his eyes were dry. "I don't care if it's wrong, okay? And maybe that means _I'm_ wrong, or I'm sick somehow-"

"You're not," said Dean fiercely. "You're not wrong. You're _fine_."

Sam's voice sounded young and broken. "I don't feel fine."

Dean couldn't deal with this. He stared at the steering wheel. He stared at the gearshift, at the candy wrappers shoved in the ashtray. Everywhere but at Sam. His brother. His family. His-

"Please, Dean," said Sam. "What's it gonna take? Tell me now. And if it's not going to work, just tell me so, and I can leave you alone."

"You don't have to do that," Dean said.

"Just tell me what you _want_. If you want me to leave, I can leave." He paused. "If you want me to stay…"

Dean floundered, lost. Shook his head and looked blindly out the windshield. He needed air. He popped the door handle and stumbled out of the Impala into the dusty yard, the sunlight, the crisp breeze of late fall. Dean didn't even know what month it was. Was he going nuts again?

Dean walked over to the house and sank down on Bobby's splintered wooden porch steps. His hands shook.

After a few minutes, Sam came over and sat beside him. Dean still didn't know what the hell he was doing, but when Sam touched his knee, Dean turned and met Sam halfway, breathing out against Sam's mouth.

 

*

 

Dean woke. The morning was gray and cloudy, still dark with the onset of winter. A chill was creeping in through the crack in the window frame.

He twisted in bed, suddenly paranoid - but Sam was still there, sprawled out on the other cot beneath a pile of blankets. Dean could hear the faint whistle of a snore as Sam breathed.

As Dean lay there, he could hear other noises: wind outside, an occasional shift and creak. There was a sudden clatter from the kitchen, which mean Bobby was probably in the process of cooking some breakfast that he'd feed to the dogs if Dean and Sam didn't get there in time. And there was a song stuck in Dean's head.

_I've traveled every road in this here land-_

Dean hummed, his voice scratchy. "'I've been everywhere, man. Crossed the deserts bare, man. Of travel I've had my share'…" He trailed off, leaving Johnny Cash's words to the hazy time between night and day, where they belonged. Then he reached over and shook Sam's foot to wake him. Sam grumbled. "Whatever, sleepyhead. Rise and shine."

"Mm-like I'm _twelve_, Dean, come on," Sam grumbled.

"What, do you prefer 'we kindly request the pleasure of your presence downstairs'?"

Sam blinked up at him, obviously still half-asleep, then suddenly grinned bright. "I don't know - I'm fine with giving _you_ the pleasure of my presence, but Bobby might find that awkward." Sam's eyes glittered and Dean swallowed.

"You little bitch," he said helplessly, and Sam laughed, tugged at Dean until his knees hit the bedframe. Dean leaned over and kissed him, even though Sam's mouth was stale from sleep. When the kiss finally broke, Dean didn't move away, content to spend just a moment breathing the same air, recycled from Sam's lungs to his.

Even if they never again had more than this, here, this was enough. Rough fabric of the bedspread, Sam's body warm beneath. Dean's chest ached until he gave in and fumbled his hand under the blankets, rucking up Sam's T-shirt and tracing his fingertips along the smooth skin of his side.

"Hey." Sam reached out and touched Dean's cheek. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good." Dean grinned. "But freaking _starving_, man. Bobby's gonna feed all the bacon to the mutts."

Sam just kept looking at him, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Can you miss someone you've never met?" he asked quietly. "Do you think that ever happens?"

Dean's grin faded. For a second, he wanted to pull away, but the feeling passed and instead he moved closer. He leaned his forehead against Sam's, feeling Sam's breath against his cheek. Wind outside, a clatter from the kitchen. A storm on its way, maybe, but still a long way off.

"Yeah, it happens," said Dean.

END


End file.
